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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Collection  of 

Joseph  Z.  Todd 

Gift  of 

Hatherly  B.  Todd 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


Vol.  XX 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 
THE  PLAYS  56  FABLES 


LETTERS  AND  MISCEL- 
LANIES OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS     STEVENSON 


vv 


TH£  lis 


.TZWQAVWA'J   VZHHJ  .a  -i<\  sv.rs)tC\ 


SE  PUBLISHED  IN 
NEW  YORK  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS    $     ^       1907      t 


"  Kirstie,  with  a  n/sh-/igb/  in  her  hntui,  stole  in> 

1.717  tt." 


l>raun  IVHST  CUNEDINST. 


LETTERS  AND  MISCEL- 
LANIES OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS     STEVENSON 


w 


EIR  OF  HERMISTON 
THE  PLAYS  t  FABLES 


i  PUBLISHED  IN 
NEW  YORK  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 

SONS    $     t       1907      S6 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
Stone  &  Kimball. 

Copyright,  1896,  by 

CflARLES    ScRIBNER's    SoNS. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

WEIR  OF  HERMISTON i 

An  Unfinished  Romance. 

THE  PLAYS  OF  W.  E.  HENLEY  AND  ROBERT 
LOUIS  STEVENSON 167 

FABLES ,    .    .     ,  447 


IVEIR  OF  HERMISTON 


PAGE 

DEDICATION ix 

INTRODUCTORY xi 

CHAPTER 

I     LIFE  AND   DEATH  OF  MRS.  WEIR i 

II     FATHER  AND  SON 19 

HI     IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF  DUNCAN 

JOPP 27 

IV    OPINION   OF  THE  BENCH 45 

V    WINTER  ON  THE  MOORS: 

I    At  Hermiston 56 

II    KiRSTiE 60 

III    A  Border  Family 64 

VI    A  LEAF   FROM  CHRISTINA'S  PSALM-BOOK     ...     84 

VII     ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 114 

VIII    A  NOCTURNAL  VISIT 135 

IX    AT  THE  WEAVER'S  STONE 144 

EDITORIAL  NOTE 153 

GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTTISH   WORDS 163 

vii 


CONTENTS 

THE  PLAYS 

PAGE 

DEACON   BRODIE '.    .  I73 

BEAU  AUSTIN 277 

ADMIRAL  GUINEA 335 

ROBERT  MACAIRE 399 

FABLES 

PAGE 

I  THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  TALE 447 

II  THE  SINKING  SHIP 452 

III  THE  TWO   MATCHES 455 

IV  THE  SICK   MAN   AND   THE   FIREMAN 457 

V  THE   DEVIL  AND  THE   INNKEEPER 458 

VI  THE   PENITENT 459 

VII  THE  YELLOW   PAINT 460 

VIII  THE   HOUSE  OF   ELD 463 

IX  THE   FOUR   REFORMERS 471 

X  THE   MAN   AND   HIS   FRIEND    . 472 

XI  THE   READER 473 

XII  THE  CITIZEN   AND  THE  TRAVELLER 475 

XIII  THE   DISTINGUISHED  STRANGER 476 

XIV  THE  CARTHORSES   AND   THE  SADDLEHORSE  .     .  478 
XV    THE  TADPOLE   AND   THE   FROG 479 

XVI     SOMETHING   IN   IT 480 

XVII     FAITH,   HALF-FAITH,   AND  NO   FAITH   AT  ALL    .  484 

XVIII     THE  TOUCHSTONE 487 

XIX    THE   POOR  THING 49^ 

XX    THE  SONG   OF  THE   MORROW 503 

viii 


TO 

MY  WIFE 

t  saw  rain  falling  and  the  rainbow  drawn 
On  Lammermuir.     Hearkening  I  heard  again 
In  my  precipitous  city  beaten  bells 
Winnow  the  keen  sea  wind.     And  here  afar, 
Intent  on  my  own  race  and  place,  I  wrote. 

Take  thou  the  writing  :  thine  it  is.     For  who 
Burnished  the  sword,  blew  on  the  drowsy  coal, 
Held  still  the  target  higher,  chary  of  praise 
And  prodigal  of  counsel  —  who  but  thou? 
So  now,  in  the  end,  if  this  the  least  be  good, 
If  any  deed  be  done,  if  any  fire 
Burn  in  the  imperfect  page,  the  praise  be  thine. 


INTRODUCTORY 

In  the  wild  end  of  a  moorland  parish,  far  out  of  the  sight  of  any  house, 
there  stands  a  cairn  among  the  heather,  and  a  little  by  east  of  it,  in 
the  going  down  of  the  braeside,  a  monument  with  some  verses  half 
defaced.  It  was  here  that  Claverhouse  shot  with  his  own  hand  the 
Praying  Weaver  of  Balweary,  and  the  chisel  of  Old  Mortality  has 
clinked  on  that  lonely  gravestone.  Public  and  domestic  history  have 
thus  marked  with  a  bloody  finger  this  hollow  among  the  hills;  and 
since  the  Cameronian  gave  his  life  there,  two  hundred  years  ago,  in  a 
glorious  folly,  and  without  comprehension  or  regret,  the  silence  of 
the  moss  has  been  broken  once  again  by  the  report  of  firearms  and 
the  cry  of  the  dying. 

The  Deil's  Hags  was  the  old  name.  But  the  piace  is  now  called 
Francie's  Cairn.  For  a  while  it  was  told  that  Francie  walked.  Aggie 
Hogg  met  him  in  the  gloaming  by  the  caimside,  and  he  spoke  to  her, 
with  chattering  teeth,  so  that  his  words  were  lost.  He  pursued  Rob 
Todd  (if  anyone  could  have  believed  Robbie)  for  the  space  of  half  a  mile 
with  pitiful  entreaties.  But  the  age  is  one  of  incredulity ;  these  supersti- 
tious decorations  speedily  fell  off;  and  the  facts  of  the  story  itself,  like 
the  bones  of  a  giant  buried  there  and  half  dug  up,  survived,  naked  and 
imperfect,  in  the  memory  of  the  scattered  neighbours.  To  this  day,  of 
winter  nights,  when  the  sleet  is  on  the  window  and  the  cattle  are 
quiet  in  the  byre,  there  will  be  told  again,  amid  the  silence  of  the 
young  and  the  additions  and  corrections  of  the  old,  the  tale  of  the 
Justice-Clerk  and  of  his  son,  young  Hermiston,  that  vanished  from 
men's  knowledge;  of  the  two  Kirsties  and  the  Four  Black  Brothers 
of  the  Cauldstaneslap;  and  of  Frank  Innes,  "the  young  fool  advo- 
cate," that  came  into  these  moorland  parts  to  find  his  destiny. 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

CHAPTER  I 

LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  MRS.    WEIR 

THE  Lord  Justice-Clerk  was  a  stranger  in  that  part 
of  the  country ;  but  his  lady  wife  was  known  there 
from  a  child,  as  her  race  had  been  before  her.  The  old 
**  riding  Rutherfords  of  Hermiston,"  of  whom  she  was 
the  last  descendant,  had  been  famous  men  of  yore,  ill 
neighbours,  ill  subjects,  and  ill  husbands  to  their  wives 
though  not  their  properties.  Tales  of  them  were  rife 
for  twenty  miles  about;  and  their  name  was  even 
printed  in  the  page  of  our  Scots  histories,  not  always  to 
their  credit.  One  bit  the  dust  at  Flodden;  one  was 
hanged  at  his  peel  door  by  James  the  Fifth;  another  fell 
dead  in  a  carouse  with  Tom  Dalzell;  while  a  fourth 
(and  that  was  Jean's  own  father)  died  presiding  at  a 
Hell-Fire  Club,  of  which  he  was  the  founder.  There 
were  many  heads  shaken  in  Crossmichael  at  that  judg- 
ment; the  more  so  as  the  man  had  a  villainous  reputa- 
tion among  high  and  low,  and  both  with  the  godly  and 
the  worldly.  At  that  very  hour  of  his  demise,  he  had 
ten  going  pleas  before  the  session,  eight  of  them  op- 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

pressive.  And  the  same  doom  extended  even  to  his 
agents;  his  grieve,  that  had  been  his  right  hand  in 
many  a  left-hand  business,  being  cast  from  his  horse 
one  night  and  drowned  in  a  peat-hag  on  the  Kye  skairs; 
and  his  very  doer  (although  lawyers  have  long  spoons) 
surviving  him  not  long,  and  dying  on  a  sudden  in  a 
bloody  flux. 

In  all  these  generations,  while  a  male  Rutherford  was 
in  the  saddle  with  his  lads,  or  brawling  in  a  change- 
house,  there  would  be  always  a  white-faced  wife  im- 
mured at  home  in  the  old  peel  or  the  later  mansion- 
house.  It  seemed  this  succession  of  martyrs  bided 
long,  but  took  their  vengeance  in  the  end,  and  that  was 
in  the  person  of  the  last  descendant,  Jean.  She  bore 
the  name  of  the  Rutherfords,  but  she  was  the  daughter 
of  their  trembling  wives.  At  the  first  she  was  not 
wholly  without  charm.  Neighbours  recalled  in  her,  as 
a  child,  a  strain  of  elfm  wilfulness,  gentle  little  mutinies, 
sad  little  gaieties,  even  a  morning  gleam  of  beauty  that 
was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  She  withered  in  the  growing, 
and  (whether  it  was  the  sins  of  her  sires  or  the  sorrows  of 
her  mothers)  came  to  her  maturity  depressed,  and,  as  it 
were,  defaced ;  no  blood  of  life  in  her,  no  grasp  or  gaiety ; 
pious,  anxious,  tender,  tearful,  and  incompetent. 

It  was  a  wonder  to  many  that  she  had  married  — 
seeming  so  wholly  of  the  stuff  that  makes  old  maids. 
But  chance  cast  her  in  the  path  of  Adam  Weir,  then  the 
new  Lord-Advocate,  a  recognised,  risen  man,  the  con- 
queror of  many  obstacles,  and  thus  late  in  the  day  be- 
ginning to  think  upon  a  wife.  He  was  one  who  looked 
rather  to  obedience  than  beauty,  yet  it  would  seem  he 
was  struck  with  her  at  the  first  look.     "  Wha's  she  ?  " 


LIFE  AND   DEATH  OF  MRS.  WEIR 

he  said,  turning  to  his  host;  and,  when  he  had  been 
told,  **  Ay, "says  he,  "she  looks  menseful.     She  minds 

me ";  and  then,  after  a  pause  (which  some  have 

been  daring  enough  to  set  down  to  sentimental  recol- 
lections), "Is  she  releegious?"  he  asked,  and  was 
shortly  after,  at  his  own  request,  presented.  The  ac- 
quaintance, which  it  seems  profane  to  call  a  courtship^ 
was  pursued  with  Mr.  Weir's  accustomed  industry,  and 
was  long  a  legend,  or  rather  a  source  of  legends,  in  thq 
Parliament  House.  He  was  described  coming,  rosy 
with  much  port,  into  the  drawing-room,  walking  direct 
up  to  the  lady,  and  assailing  her  with  pleasantries,  to 
which  the  embarrassed  fair  one  responded,  in  what 
seemed  a  kind  of  agony,  "Eh,  Mr.  Weir!"  or  "O,  Mr. 
Weir!"  or  "Keep  me,  Mr.  Weir!"  On  the  very  eve 
of  their  engagement  it  was  related  that  one  had  drawn 
near  to  the  tender  couple,  and  had  overheard  the  lady 
cry  out,  with  the  tones  of  one  who  talked  for  the  sake 
of  talking,  "Keep  me,  Mr.  Weir,  and  what  became  of 
him  ?  "  and  the  profound  accents  of  the  suitor's  reply, 
"  Haangit,  mem,  haangit."  The  motives  upon  either 
side  were  much  debated.  Mr.  Weir  must  have  sup- 
posed his  bride  to  be  somehow  suitable;  perhaps  he 
belonged  to  that  class  of  men  who  think  a  weak  head 
the  ornament  of  women — an  opinion  invariably  pun- 
ished in  this  life.  Her  descent  and  her  estate  were  be- 
yond question.  Her  wayfaring  ancestors  and  her  liti- 
gious father  had  done  well  by  Jean.  There  was  ready 
money  and  there  were  broad  acres,  ready  to  fall  wholly 
to  the  husband,  to  lend  dignity  to  his  descendants,  and 
to  himself  a  title,  when  he  should  be  called  upon  the 
Bench.     On  the  side  of  Jean  there  was  perhaps  some 

3 


WEIR   OF   HERMISTON 

fascination  of  curiosity  as  to  this  unknown  male  animal 
that  approached  her  with  the  roughness  of  a  ploughman 
and  the  aplomb  of  an  advocate.  Being  so  trenchantly 
opposed  to  all  she  knew,  loved  or  understood,  he  may 
well  have  seemed  to  her  the  extreme,  if  scarcely  the 
ideal,  of  his  sex.  And  besides,  he  was  an  ill  man  to  re- 
fuse. A  little  over  forty  at  the  period  of  his  marriage, 
he  looked  already  older,  and  to  the  force  of  manhood 
added  the  senatorial  dignity  of  years;  it  was,  perhaps, 
with  an  unreverend  awe,  but  he  was  awful.  The 
Bench,  the  Bar,  and  the  most  experienced  and  reluctant 
witness,  bowed  to  his  authority  —  and  why  not  Jeannie 
Rutherford  ? 

The  heresy  about  foolish  women  is  always  punished, 
I  have  said,  and  Lord  Hermiston  began  to  pay  the  pen- 
alty at  once.  His  house  in  George  Square  was  wretch- 
edly ill-guided ;  nothing  answerable  to  the  expense  of 
maintenance  but  the  cellar,  which  was  his  own  private 
care.  When  things  went  wrong  at  dinner,  as  they 
continually  did,  my  lord  would  look  up  the  table  at  his 
wife:  "I  think  these  broth  would  be  better  to  swim  in 
than  to  sup."  Or  else  to  the  butler:  "  Here,  M'Killop, 
awa'  wi'  this  Raadical  gigot  —  tak'  it  to  the  French,  man, 
and  bring  me  some  puddocks!  It  seems  rather  a  sore 
kind  of  a  business  that  I  should  be  all  day  in  Court 
haanging  Raadicals,  and  get  nawthing  to  my  denner." 
Of  course  this  was  but  a  manner  of  speaking,  and  he 
had  never  hanged  a  man  for  being  a  Radical  in  his  life; 
the  law,  of  which  he  was  the  faithful  minister,  directing 
otherwise.  And  of  course  these  growls  were  in  the 
nature  of  pleasantry,  but  it  was  of  a  recondite  sort;  and 
uttered  as  they  were  in  his  resounding  voice,  and  com- 

4 


LIFE  AND   DEATH   OF  MRS.  WEIR 

merited  on  by  that  expression  which  they  called  in  the 
Parliament  House  "  Hermiston's  hanging  face" — they 
struck  mere  dismay  into  the  wife.  She  sat  before  him 
speechless  and  fluttering;  at  each  dish,  as  at  a  fresh  or- 
deal, her  eye  hovered  toward  my  lord's  countenance 
and  fell  again ;  if  he  but  ate  in  silence,  unspeakable  re- 
lief was  her  portion ;  if  there  were  complaint,  the  world 
was  darkened.  She  would  seek  out  the  cook,  who 
was  always  her  sister  in  the  Lord.  *'  O,  my  dear,  this 
is  the  most  dreidful  thing,  that  my  lord  can  never  be 
contented  in  his  own  house!"  she  would  begin;  and 
weep  and  pray  with  the  cook;  and  then  the  cook  would 
pray  with  Mrs.  Weir;  and  the  next  day's  meal  would 
never  be  a  penny  the  better  —  and  the  next  cook  (when 
she  came)  would  be  worse,  if  anything,  but  just  as  pi- 
ous. It  was  often  wondered  that  Lord  Hermiston  bore 
it  as  he  did ;  indeed  he  was  a  stoical  old  voluptuary, 
contented  with  sound  wine  and  plenty  of  it.  But  there 
were  moments  when  he  overflowed.  Perhaps  half  a 
dozen  times  in  the  history  of  his  married  life —  "Here! 
tak'  it  awa',  and  bring  me  a  piece  bread  and  kebbuck!  " 
he  had  exclaimed,  with  an  appalling  explosion  of  his 
voice  and  rare  gestures.  None  thought  to  dispute  or 
to  make  excuses;  the  service  was  arrested;  Mrs.  Weir 
sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  whimpering  without  dis- 
guise; and  his  lordship  opposite  munched  his  bread  and 
cheese  in  ostentatious  disregard.  Once  only,  Mrs. 
Weir  had  ventured  to  appeal.  He  was  passing  her 
chair  on  his  way  into  the  study. 

*'  O,  Edom !  "  she  wailed,  in  a  voice  tragic  with  tears, 
and  reaching  out  to  him  both  hands,  in  one  of  which 
she  held  a  sopping  pocket-handkerchief. 

5 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

He  paused  and  looked  upon  her  with  a  face  of  wrath, 
into  which  there  stole,  as  he  looked,  a  twinkle  of 
humor. 

' '  Noansense ! "  he  said.  **  You  and  your  noansense ! 
What  do  I  want  with  a  Christian  faim'ly?  I  want 
Christian  broth  I  Get  me  a  lass  that  can  plain  boil  a 
potato,  if  she  was  a  whure  off  the  streets."  And  with 
these  words,  which  echoed  in  her  tender  ears  like  blas- 
phemy, he  had  passed  on  to  his  study  and  shut  the 
door  behind  him. 

Such  was  the  housewifery  in  George  Square.  It  was 
better  at  Hermiston,  where  Kirstie  Elliot,  the  sister  of  a 
neighbouring  bonnet-laird,  and  an  eighteenth  cousin  of 
the  lady's,  bore  the  charge  of  all,  and  kept  a  trim  house 
and  a  good  country  table.  Kirstie  was  a  woman  in  a 
thousand,  clean,  capable,  notable;  once  a  moorland 
Helen,  and  still  comely  as  a  blood  horse  and  healthy  as 
the  hill  wind.  High  in  flesh  and  voice  and  colour,  she 
ran  the  house  with  her  whole  intemperate  soul,  in  a 
bustle,  not  without  buffets.  Scarce  more  pious  than 
decency  in  those  days  required,  she  was  the  cause  of 
many  an  anxious  thought  and  many  a  tearful  prayer  to 
Mrs.  Weir.  Housekeeper  and  mistress  renewed  the 
parts  of  Martha  and  Mary;  and  though  with  a  pricking 
conscience,  Mary  reposed  on  Martha's  strength  as  on  a 
rock.  Even  Lord  Hermiston  held  Kirstie  in  a  particular 
regard.  There  were  few  with  whom  he  unbent  so 
gladly,  few  whom  he  favoured  with  so  many  pleasan- 
tries. "  Kirstie  and  me  maun  have  our  joke,"  he  would 
declare,  in  high  good-humor,  as  he  buttered  Kirstie's 
scones  and  she  waited  at  table.  A  man  who  had  no 
need  either  of  love  or  of  popularity,  a  keen  reader  of 

6 


LIFE   AND    DEATH   OF  MRS.  WEIR 

men  and  of  events,  there  was  perhaps  only  one  truth 
for  which  he  was  quite  unprepared:  he  would  have 
been  quite  unprepared  to  learn  that  Kirstie  hated  him. 
He  thought  maid  and  master  were  well  matched;  hard, 
handy,  healthy,  broad  Scots  folk,  without  a  hair  of  non- 
sense to  the  pair  of  them.  And  the  fact  was  that  she 
made  a  goddess  and  an  only  child  of  the  effete  and  tear- 
ful lady;  and  even  as  she  waited  at  table  her  hands 
would  sometimes  itch  for  my  lord's  ears. 

Thus,  at  least,  when  the  family  were  at  Hermiston, 
not  only  my  lord,  but  Mrs.  Weir  too,  enjoyed  a  holi- 
day. Free  from  the  dreadful  looking-for  of  the  mis- 
carried dinner,  she  would  mind  her  seam,  read  her  piety 
books,  and  take  her  walk  (which  was  my  lord's  or- 
ders), sometimes  by  herself,  sometimes  with  Archie, 
the  only  child  of  that  scarce  natural  union.  The  child 
was  her  next  bond  to  life.  Her  frosted  sentiment 
bloomed  again,  she  breathed  deep  of  life,  she  let  loose 
her  heart,  in  that  society.  The  miracle  of  her  mother- 
hood was  ever  new  to  her.  The  sight  of  the  little  man 
at  her  skirt  intoxicated  her  with  the  sense  of  power, 
and  froze  her  with  the  consciousness  of  her  responsi- 
bility. She  looked  forward,  and,  seeing  him  in  fancy 
grow  up  and  play  his  diverse  part  on  the  world's  thea- 
tre, caught  in  her  breath  and  lifted  up  her  courage  with 
a  lively  effort.  It  was  only  with  the  child  that  she  for- 
got herself  and  was  at  moments  natural;  yet  it  was 
only  with  the  child  that  she  had  conceived  and  man- 
aged to  pursue  a  scheme  of  conduct.  Archie  was  to 
be  a  great  man  and  a  good;  a  minister  if  possible,  a 
saint  for  certain.  She  tried  to  engage  his  mind  upon 
her  favourite  books,  Rutherford's  *' Letters,"  Scougal's 

7 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

**  Grace  Abounding,"  and  the  like.  It  was  a  common 
practice  of  hers  (and  strange  to  remember  now)  that 
she  would  carry  the  child  to  the  Deil's  Hags,  sit  with 
him  on  the  Praying  Weaver's  stone  and  talk  of  the 
Covenanters  till  their  tears  ran  down.  Her  view  of 
history  was  wholly  artless,  a  design  in  snow  and  ink ; 
upon  the  one  side,  tender  innocents  with  psalms  upon 
their  lips;  upon  the  other,  the  persecutors,  booted, 
bloody-minded,  flushed  with  wine;  a  suffering  Christ, 
a  raging  Beelzebub.  Persecutor  was  a  word  that 
knocked  upon  the  woman's  heart;  it  was  her  highest 
thought  of  wickedness,  and  the  mark  of  it  was  on  her 
house.  Her  great-great-grandfather  had  drawn  the 
sword  against  the  Lord's  anointed  on  the  field  of  Rul- 
lion  Green,  and  breathed  his  last  (tradition  said)  in  the 
arms  of  the  detestable  Dalzell.  Nor  could  she  blind 
herself  to  this,  that  had  they  lived  in  these  old  days, 
Hermiston  himself  would  have  been  numbered  along- 
side of  Bloody  MacKenzie  and  the  politic  Lauderdale 
and  Rothes,  in  the  band  of  God's  immediate  enemies. 
The  sense  of  this  moved  her  to  the  more  fervour;  she 
had  a  voice  for  that  name  of  persecutor  that  thrilled 
in  the  child's  marrow;  and  when  one  day  the  mob 
hooted  and  hissed  them  all  in  my  lord's  traveling  car- 
riage, and  cried,  "Down  with  the  persecutor!  down 
with  Hanging  Hermiston!"  and  mamma  covered  her 
eyes  and  wept,  and  papa  let  down  the  glass  and  looked 
out  upon  thejabble  with  his  droll  formidable  face,  bit- 
ter and  smiling,  as  they  said  he  sometimes  looked 
when  he  gave  sentence,  Archie  was  for  the  moment 
too  much  amazed  to  be  alarmed,  but  he  had  scarce  got 
his  mother  by  herself  before  his  shrill  voice  was  raised 

8 


LIFE  AND   DEATH   OF  MRS.  WEIR 

demanding  an  explanation ;  why  had  they  called  papa 
a  persecutor? 

"Keep  me,  my  precious!"  she  exclaimed.  **Keep 
me,  my  dear!  this  is  poleetical.  Ye  must  never  ask  me 
anything  poleetical,  Erchie.  Your  faither  is  a  great  man, 
my  dear,  and  it's  no  for  me  or  you  to  be  judging  him. 
It  would  be  telling  us  all  if  we  behaved  ourselves  in  our 
several  stations  the  way  your  faither  does  in  his  high 
office ;  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  any  such  disrespect- 
ful and  undutiful  questions !  No  that  you  meant  to  be 
undutiful,  my  lamb;  your  mother  kens  that  —  she  kens 
it  well,  dearie! "  and  so  slid  off  to  safer  topics,  and  left 
on  the  mind  of  the  child  an  obscure  but  ineradicable 
sense  of  something  wrong. 

Mrs.  Weir's  philosophy  of  life  was  summed  in  one 
expression  —  tenderness.  In  her  view  of  the  universe, 
which  was  all  lighted  up  with  a  glow  out  of  the  doors 
of  hell,  good  people  must  walk  there  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy 
of  tenderness.  The  beasts  and  plants  had  no  souls; 
they  were  here  but  for  a  day,  and  let  their  day  pass 
gently!  And  as  for  the  immortal  men,  on  what  black, 
downward  path  were  many  of  them  wending,  and  to 
what  a  horror  of  an  immortality !  **  Are  not  two  spar- 
rows," *' Whosoever  shall  smite  thee,"  "God  sendeth 
His  rain,"  "Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged"  —  these 
texts  made  her  body  of  divinity;  she  put  them  on  in 
the  morning  with  her  clothes  and  lay  down  to  sleep 
with  them  at  night;  they  haunted  her  like  a  favourite 
air,  they  clung  about  her  like  a  favourite  perfume. 
Their  minister  was  a  marrowy  expounder  of  the  law, 
and  my  lord  sat  under  him  with  relish;  but  Mrs.  Weir 
respected  him  from  far  off;  heard  him  (like  the  cannon 

9 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

of  a  beleaguered  city)  usefully  booming  outside  on  the 
dogmatic  ramparts;  and  meanwhile,  within  and  out  of 
shot,  dwelt  in  her  private  garden,  which  she  watered 
with  grateful  tears.  It  seems  strange  to  say  of  this 
colourless  and  ineffectual  woman,  but  she  was  a  true 
enthusiast,  and  might  have  made  the  sunshine  and  the 
glory  of  a  cloister.  Perhaps  none  but  Archie  knew  she 
could  be  eloquent;  perhaps  none  but  he  had  seen  her — 
her  colour  raised,  her  hands  clasped  or  quivering  — 
glow  with  gentle  ardour.  There  is  a  corner  of  the 
policy  of  Hermiston,  where  you  come  suddenly  in  view 
of  the  summit  of  Black  Fell,  sometimes  like  the  mere 
grass  top  of  a  hill,  sometimes  (and  this  is  her  own  ex- 
pression) like  a  precious  jewel  in  the  heavens.  On 
such  days,  upon  the  sudden  view  of  it,  her  hand  would 
tighten  on  the  child's  fingers,  her  voice  rise  like  a  song. 
'*!  to  the  hills!  "  she  would  repeat.  "And  O,  Erchie, 
are  nae  these  like  the  hills  of  Naphtali  ?  "  and  her  easy 
tears  would  flow. 

Upon  an  impressionable  child  the  effect  of  this  con- 
tinual and  pretty  accompaniment  to  life  was  deep. 
The  woman's  quietism  and  piety  passed  on  to  his  dif- 
ferent nature  undiminished;  but  whereas  in  her  it  was 
a  native  sentiment,  in  him  it  was  only  an  implanted 
dogma.  Nature  and  the  child's  pugnacity  at  times  re- 
volted. A  cad  from  the  Potterrow  once  struck  him  in 
the  mouth ;  he  struck  back,  the  pair  fought  it  out  in  the 
back  stable  lane  towards  the  Meadows,  and  Archie  re- 
turned with  a  considerable  decline  in  the  number  of  his 
front  teeth,  and  unregenerately  boasting  of  the  losses 
of  the  foe.  It  was  a  sore  day  for  Mrs.  Weir;  she  wept 
and  prayed  over  the  infant  backslider  until  my  lord  was 

10 


LIFE   AND    DEATH   OF   MRS.  WEIR 

due  from  court,  and  she  must  resume  that  air  of  tremu- 
lous composure  with  which  she  always  greeted  him. 
The  judge  was  that  day  in  an  observant  mood,  and  re- 
marked upon  the  absent  teeth. 

"I  am  afraid  Erchie  will  have  been  fechting  with 
some  of  they  blagyard  lads,"  said  Mrs.  Weir. 

My  lord's  voice  rang  out  as  it  did  seldom  in  the  pri- 
vacy of  his  own  house.  "  I'll  have  nonn  of  that,  sir! " 
he  cried.  "  Do  you  hear  me  .?  —  nonn  of  that!  No  son 
of  mine  shall  be  speldering  in  the  glaur  with  any  dirty 
raibble." 

The  anxious  mother  was  grateful  for  so  much  sup- 
port; she  had  even  feared  the  contrary.  And  that  night 
when  she  put  the  child  to  bed —  "Now,  my  dear,  3^e 
see!"  she  said,  "I  told  you  what  your  faither  would 
think  of  it,  if  he  heard  ye  had  fallen  into  this  dreidful 
sin ;  and  let  you  and  me  pray  to  God  that  ye  may  be 
keepit  from  the  like  temptation  or  stren'thened  to  resist 
it!" 

The  womanly  falsity  of  this  was  thrown  away.  Ice 
and  iron  cannot  be  welded;  and  the  points  of  view  of 
the  Justice-Clerk  and  Mrs.  Weir  were  not  less  unassim- 
ilable.  The  character  and  position  of  his  father  had  long 
been  a  stumbling-block  to  Archie,  and  with  every  year 
of  his  age  the  difficulty  grew  more  instant.  The  man 
was  mostly  silent;  when  he  spoke  at  all,  it  was  to 
speak  of  the  things  of  the  world,  always  in  a  worldly 
spirit,  often  in  language  that  the  child  had  been  schooled 
to  think  coarse,  and  sometimes  with  words  that  he 
knew  to  be  sins  in  themselves.  Tenderness  was  the 
first  duty,  and  my  lord  was  invariably  harsh.  God  was 
love;  the  name  of  my  lord  (to  all  who  knew  him)  was 

II 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

fear.  In  the  world,  as  schematised  for  Archie  by  his 
mother,  the  place  was  marked  for  such  a  creature. 
There  were  some  whom  it  was  good  to  pity  and  well 
(though  very  likely  useless)  to  pray  for;  they  were 
named  reprobates,  goats,  God's  enemies,  brands  for  the 
burning;  and  Archie  tallied  every  mark  of  identification, 
and  drew  the  inevitable  private  inference  that  the  Lord 
Justice-Clerk  was  the  chief  of  sinners. 

The  mother's  honesty  was  scarce  complete.  There 
was  one  influence  she  feared  for  the  child  and  still  se- 
cretly combated;  that  was  my  lord's;  and  half  uncon- 
sciously, half  in  a  wilful  blindness,  she  continued  to  un- 
dermine her  husband  with  his  son.  As  long  as  Archie 
remained  silent,  she  did  so  ruthlessly,  with  a  single  eye 
to  heaven  and  the  child's  salvation;  but  the  day  came 
when  Archie  spoke.  It  was  1801,  and  Archie  was 
seven,  and  beyond  his  years  for  curiosity  and  logic, 
when  he  brought  the  case  up  openly.  If  judging  were 
sinful  and  forbidden,  how  came  papa  to  be  a  judge  ?  to 
have  that  sin  for  a  trade  ?  to  bear  the  name  of  it  for  a 
distinction  ? 

"  I  can't  see  it,"  said  the  little  Rabbi,  and  wagged  his 
head. 

Mrs.  Weir  abounded  in  commonplace  replies. 

**No,  I  cannae  see  it,"  reiterated  Archie.  **  And  I'll 
tell  you  what,  mamma,  I  don't  think  you  and  me's 
justifeed  in  staying  with  him." 

The  woman  awoke  to  remorse;  she  saw  herself  dis- 
loyal to  her  man,  her  sovereign  and  bread-winner,  in 
whom  (with  what  she  had  of  worldliness)  she  took  a 
certain  subdued  pride.  She  expatiated  in  reply  on  my 
lord's  honour  and  greatness ;  his  useful  services  in  this 

12 


LIFE  AND   DEATH   OF  MRS.  WEIR 

world  of  sorrow  and  wrong,  and  the  place  in  which  he 
stood,  far  above  where  babes  and  innocents  could  hope 
to  see  or  criticise.  But  she  had  builded  too  well  — 
Archie  had  his  answers  pat:  Were  not  babes  and  inno- 
cents the  type  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ?  Were  not 
honour  and  greatness  the  badges  of  the  world  ?  And 
at  any  rate,  how  about  the  mob  that  had  once  seethed 
about  the  carriage  ? 

"It's  all  very  fine,"  he  concluded,  *'but  in  my 
opinion,  papa  has  no  right  to  be  it.  And  it  seems 
that's  not  the  worst  yet  of  it.  It  seems  he's  called  '  the 
Hanging  Judge '  —  it  seems  he's  crooool.  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  mamma,  there's  a  tex'  borne  in  upon  me: 
it  were  better  for  that  man  if  a  milestone  were  bound 
upon  his  back  and  him  flung  into  the  deepestmost  pairts 
of  the  sea." 

"  O,  my  Iamb,  ye  must  never  say  the  like  of  that! " 
she  cried.  "  Ye're  to  honour  faither  and  mother,  dear, 
that  your  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.  It's  Atheists 
that  cry  out  against  him  —  French  Atheists,  Erchie! 
Ye  would  never  surely  even  yourself  down  to  be  saying 
the  same  thing  as  French  Atheists  ?  It  would  break 
my  heart  to  think  that  of  you.  And  O,  Erchie,  here 
are' na you  setting  up  to  Judge  ?  And  have  ye  no  forgot 
God's  plain  command  —  the  First  with  Promise,  dear  ? 
Mind  you  upon  the  beam  and  the  mote!  " 

Having  thus  carried  the  war  into  the  enemy's  camp, 
the  terrified  lady  breathed  again.  And  no  doubt  it  is 
easy  thus  to  circumvent  a  child  with  catchwords,  but  it 
may  be  questioned  how  far  it  is  effectual.  An  instinct 
in  his  breast  detects  the  quibble,  and  a  voice  condemns 
it.     He  will  instantly  submit,  privately  hold  the  same 

»3 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

opinion.  For  even  in  this  simple  and  antique  relation 
of  the  mother  and  the  child,  hypocrisies  are  multiplied. 

When  the  Court  rose  that  year  and  the  family  re- 
turned to  Hermiston,  it  was  a  common  remark  in  all  the 
country  that  the  lady  was  sore  failed.  She  seemed  to 
loose  and  seize  again  her  touch  with  life,  now  sitting 
inert  in  a  sort  of  durable  bewilderment,  anon  waking  to 
feverish  and  weak  activity.  She  dawdled  about  the 
lasses  at  their  work,  looking  stupidly  on ;  she  fell  to 
rummaging  in  old  cabinets  and  presses,  and  desisted 
when  half  through;  she  would  begin  remarks  with  an 
air  of  animation  and  drop  them  without  a  struggle.  Her 
common  appearance  was  of  one  who  has  forgotten 
something  and  is  trying  to  remember;  and  when  she 
overhauled,  one  after  another,  the  worthless  and  touch- 
ing mementoes  of  her  youth,  she  might  have  been  seek- 
ing the  clue  to  that  lost  thought.  During  this  period  she 
gave  many  gifts  to  the  neighbours  and  house  lassies, 
giving  them  with  a  manner  of  regret  that  embarrassed 
the  recipients. 

The  last  night  of  all  she  was  busy  on  some  female 
work,  and  toiled  upon  it  with  so  manifest  and  painful  a 
devotion  that  my  lord  (who  was  not  often  curious)  in- 
quired as  to  its  nature. 

She  blushed  to  the  eyes.  "  O,  Edom,  it's  for  you!  '* 
she  said.   "  It's  slippers.  I  —  I  hae  never  made  ye  any." 

"Ye  daft  auld  wife!"  returned  his  lordship.  **A 
bonny  figure  I  would  be,  palmering  about  in  bauchles!  " 

The  next  day,  at  the  hour  of  her  walk,  Kirstie  inter- 
fered. Kirstie  took  this  decay  of  her  mistress  very  hard; 
bore  her  a  grudge,  quarrelled  with  and  railed  upon  her, 
the  anxiety  of  a  genuine  love  wearing  the  disguise  of 

14 


LIFE  AND   DEATH   OF  MRS.  WEIR 

temper.  This  day  of  all  days  she  insisted  disrespect- 
fully, with  rustic  fury,  that  Mrs.  Weir  should  stay  at 
home.  But,  "No,  no,"  she  said,  "it's  my  lord's  or- 
ders," and  set  forth  as  usual.  Archie  was  visible  in  the 
acre  bog,  engaged  upon  some  childish  enterprise,  the 
instrument  of  which  was  mire;  and  she  stood  and 
looked  at  him  awhile  like  one  about  to  call;  then 
thought  otherwise,  sighed,  and  shook  her  head,  and 
proceeded  on  her  rounds  alone.  The  house  lassies 
were  at  the  burnside  washing,  and  saw  her  pass  with 
her  loose,  weary,  dowdy  gait. 

"She's  a  terrible  feckless  wife,  the  mistress!"  said 
the  one. 

"Tut,"  said  the  other,  "the  wumman's  seeck." 

"Weel,  I  canna  see  nae  differ  in  her,"  returned  the 
first.     "A  fushionless  quean,  a  feckless  carline." 

The  poor  creature  thus  discussed  rambled  a  while  in 
the  grounds  without  a  purpose.  Tides  in  her  mind 
ebbed  and  flowed,  and  carried  her  to  and  fro  like  sea- 
weed. She  tried  a  path,  paused,  returned,  and  tried 
another;  questing,  forgetting  her  quest;  the  spirit  of 
choice  extinct  in  her  bosom,  or  devoid  ofsequency.  On 
a  sudden,  it  appeared  as  though  she  had  remembered, 
or  had  formed  a-  resolution,  wheeled  about,  returned 
with  hurried  steps,  and  appeared  in  the  dining-room, 
where  Kirstie  was  at  the  cleaning,  like  one  charged  with 
an  important  errand. 

"Kirstie!"  she  began,  and  paused;  and  then  with 
conviction,  "  Mr.  Weir  isna  speeritually  minded,  but  he 
has  been  a  good  man  to  me." 

It  was  perhaps  the  first  time  since  her  husband's  ele- 
vation that  she  had  forgotten  the  handle  to  his  name, 

15 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

of  which  the  tender,  inconsistent  woman  was  not  a 
little  proud.  And  when  Kirstie  looked  up  at  the  speak- 
er's face,  she  was  aware  of  a  change. 

**Godsake,  what's  the  maitter  wi'  ye,  mem?"  cried 
the  housekeeper,  starting  from  the  rug. 

'M  do  not  ken,"  answered  her  mistress,  shaking  her 
head.     *'But  he  is  not  speeritually  minded,  my  dear." 

"Here,  sit  down  with  ye!  Godsake,  what  ails  the 
wife?"  cried  Kirstie,  and  helped  and  forced  her  into 
my  lord's  own  chair  by  the  cheek  of  the  hearth. 

"Keep  me,  what's  this?"  she  gasped.  "Kirstie, 
what's  this  ?    I'm  frich'ened." 

They  were  her  last  words. 

It  was  the  lowering  nightfall  when  my  lord  returned. 
He  had  the  sunset  in  his  back,  all  clouds  and  glory;  and 
before  him,  by  the  wayside,  spied  Kirstie  Elliott  wait- 
ing. She  was  dissolved  in  tears,  and  addressed  him  in 
the  high,  false  note  of  barbarous  mourning,  such  as 
still  lingers  modified  among  Scots  heather. 

"The  Lord  peety  ye,  Hermiston!  the  Lord  prepare 
ye!  "  she  keened  out.  "  Weary  upon  me,  that  I  should 
have  to  tell  it!" 

He  reined  in  his  horse  and  looked  upon  her  with  the 
hanging  face. 

"  Has  the  French  landit  ?"  cried  he. 

"Man,  man,"  she  said,  "is  that  a'  ye  can  think  of? 
The  Lord  prepare  ye,  the  Lord  comfort  and  support 
ye!" 

"Is  onybody  deid?"  says  his  lordship.  "It*s  no 
Erchie?" 

"  Bethankit,  no!"  exclaimed  the  woman,  startled  in- 
i6 


LIFE  AND   DEATH   OF  MRS.  WEIR 

to  a  more  natural  tone.  *'Na,  na,  it's  no  sae  bad  as 
that.  It's  the  mistress,  my  lord;  she  just  fair  flittit  be- 
fore my  e'en.  She  just  gi'ed  a  sab  and  was  by  with  it. 
Eh,  my  bonny  Miss  Jeannie,  that  I  mind  sae  weel!" 
And  forth  again  upon  that  pouring  tide  of  lamentation 
in  which  women  of  her  class  excel  and  overabound. 

Lord  Hermiston  sat  in  the  saddle  beholding  her.  Then 
he  seemed  to  recover  command  upon  himself. 

"Weel,  it's  something  of  the  suddenest,"  said  he. 
**  But  she  was  a  dwaibly  body  from  the  first." 

And  he  rode  home  at  a  precipitate  amble  with  Kirstie 
at  his  horse's  heels. 

Dressed  as  she  was  for  her  last  walk,  they  had  laid 
the  dead  lady  on  her  bed.  She  was  never  interest- 
ing in  life;  in  death  she  was  not  impressive;  and  as  her 
husband  stood  before  her,  with  his  hands  crossed  be- 
hind his  powerful  back,  that  which  he  looked  upon  was 
the  very  image  of  the  insignificant. 

**Her  and  me  were  never  cut  out  for  one  another," 
he  remarked  at  last.  *'It  was  a  daft-like  marriage." 
And  then,  with  a  most  unusual  gentleness  of  tone, 
"  Puir  bitch,"  said  he,  *'  puir  bitch!  "  Then  suddenly: 
**  Where's  Erchie?" 

Kirstie  had  decoyed  him  to  her  room  and  given  him 
**a  jeely-piece." 

*'Ye  have  some  kind  of  gumption,  too,"  observed 
the  Judge,  and  considered  his  housekeeper  grimly. 
"When  all's  said,"  he  added,  "I  micht  have  done 
waur — I  micht  have  been  marriet  upon  a  skirling 
Jezebel  like  you ! " 

'* There's  naebody  thinking  of  you,   Hermiston!'* 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

cried  the  offended  woman.  "We  think  of  her  that's 
out  of  her  sorrows.  And  could  she  have  done  waur  } 
Tell  me  that,  Hermiston  —  tell  me  that  before  her  clay- 
cauld  corp!" 

"  Weel,  there's  some  of  them  gey  an'  ill  to  please," 
observed  his  lordship. 


i8 


CHAPTER  II 

FATHER   AND   SON 

My  Lord  Justice-Clerk  was  known  to  many;  the  man 
Adam  Weir  perhaps  to  none.  He  had  nothing  to  ex- 
plain or  to  conceal ;  he  sufficed  wholly  and  silently  to 
himself;  and  that  part  of  our  nature  which  goes  out 
(too  often  with  false  coin)  to  acquire  glory  or  love, 
seemed  in  him  to  be  omitted.  He  did  not  try  to  be 
loved,  he  did  not  care  to  be;  it  is  probable  the  very 
thought  of  it  was  a  stranger  to  his  mind.  He  was  an 
admired  lawyer,  a  highly  unpopular  judge ;  and  he  looked 
down  upon  those  who  were  his  inferiors  in  either  dis- 
tinction, who  were  lawyers  of  less  grasp  or  judges  not 
so  much  detested.  In  all  the  rest  of  his  days  and  do- 
ings, not  one  trace  of  vanity  appeared ;  and  he  went  on 
through  life  with  a  mechanical  movement,  as  of  the  un- 
conscious, that  was  almost  august. 

He  saw  little  of  his  son.  In  the  childish  maladies 
with  which  the  boy  was  troubled,  he  would  make  daily 
inquiries  and  daily  pay  him  a  visit,  entering  the  sick- 
room with  a  facetious  and  appalling  countenance,  letting 
off  a  few  perfunctory  jests,  and  going  again  swiftly, 
to  the  patient's  relief.  Once,  a  court  holiday  falling  op- 
portunely, my  lord  had  his  carriage,  and  drove  the  child 
himself  to  Hermiston,  the  customary  place  of  conva- 

19 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

lescence.  It  is  conceivable  he  had  been  more  than 
usually  anxious,  for  that  journey  always  remained  in 
Archie's  memory  as  a  thing  apart,  his  father  having  re- 
lated to  him  from  beginning  to  end,  and  with  much 
detail,  three  authentic  murder  cases.  Archie  went  the 
usual  round  of  other  Edinburgh  boys,  the  high  school 
and  the  college;  and  Hermiston  looked  on,  or  rather 
looked  away,  with  scarce  an  affectation  of  interest  in  his 
progress.  Daily,  indeed,  upon  a  signal  after  dinner,  he 
was  brought  in,  given  nuts  and  a  glass  of  port,  regarded 
sardonically,  sarcastically  questioned.  "Well,  sir,  and 
what  have  you  donn  with  your  book  to-day  ? "  my 
lord  might  begin,  and  set  him  posers  in  law  Latin.  To 
a  child  just  stumbling  into  Corderius,  Papinian  and  Paul 
proved  quite  invincible.  But  papa  had  memory  of  no 
other.  He  was  not  harsh  to  the  little  scholar,  having  a 
vast  fund  of  patience  learned  upon  the  bench,  and  was 
at  no  pains  whether  to  conceal  or  to  express  his  disap- 
pointment. "Well,  ye  have  a  long  jaunt  before  ye 
yet! "  he  might  observe,  yawning,  and  fall  back  on  his 
own  thoughts  (as  like  as  not)  until  the  time  came  for 
separation,  and  my  lord  would  take  the  decanter  and 
the  glass,  and  be  off  to  the  back  chamber  looking  on 
the  Meadows,  where  he  toiled  on  his  cases  till  the  hours 
were  small.  There  was  no  "fuller  man"  on  the 
Bench;  his  memory  was  marvellous,  though  wholly 
legal;  if  he  had  to  "advise"  extempore,  none  did  it 
better;  yet  there  was  none  who  more  earnestly  pre- 
pared. As  he  thus  watched  in  the  night,  or  sat  at  table 
and  forgot  the  presence  of  his  son,  no  doubt  but  he  tasted 
deeply  of  recondite  pleasures.  To  be  wholly  devoted 
to  some  intellectual  exercise  is  to  have  succeeded  in  life; 

20 


FATHER  AND  SON 

and  perhaps  only  in  law  and  the  higher  mathematics 
may  this  devotion  be  maintained,  suffice  to  itself  without 
reaction,  and  find  continual  rewards  without  excite- 
ment. This  atmosphere  of  his  father's  sterling  industry 
was  the  best  of  Archie's  education.  Assuredly  it  did 
not  attract  him;  assuredly  it  rather  rebutted  and  de- 
pressed. Yet  it  was  still  present,  unobserved  like  the 
ticking  of  a  clock,  an  arid  ideal,  a  tasteless  stimulant  in 
the  boy's  life. 

But  Hermiston  was  not  all  of  one  piece.  He  was, 
besides,  a  mighty  toper;  he  could  sit  at  wine  until  the 
day  dawned,  and  pass  directly  from  the  table  to  the 
Bench  with  a  steady  hand  and  a  clear  head.  Beyond 
the  third  bottle,  he  showed  the  plebeian  in  a  larger  print; 
the  low,  gross  accent,  the  low,  foul  mirth,  grew  broader 
and  commoner;  he  became  less  formidable,  and  infinitely 
more  disgusting.  Now,  the  boy  had  inherited  from 
Jean  Rutherford  a  shivering  delicacy,  unequally  mated 
with  potential  violence.  In  the  playing-fields,  and 
amongst  his  own  companions,  he  repaid  a  coarse  ex- 
pression with  a  blow;  at  his  father's  table  (when  the 
time  came  for  him  to  join  these  revels)  he  turned  pale 
and  sickened  in  silence.  Of  all  the  guests  whom  he 
there  encountered,  he  had  toleration  for  only  one:  David 
Keith  Carnegie,  Lord  Glenalmond.  Lord  Glenalmond 
was  tall  and  emaciated,  with  long  features  and  long 
delicate  hands.  He  was  often  compared  with  the  statue 
of  Forbes  of  Culloden  in  the  Parliament  House;  and  his 
blue  eye,  at  more  than  sixty,  preserved  some  of  the  fire 
of  youth.  His  exquisite  disparity  with  any  of  his  fellow 
guests,  his  appearance  as  of  an  artist  and  an  aristocrat 
stranded  in  rude  company,  riveted  the  boy's  attention ; 

21 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

and  as  curiosity  and  interest  are  the  things  in  the  world 
that  are  the  most  immediately  and  certainly  rewarded, 
Lord  Glenalmond  was  attracted  to  the  boy. 

"And  so  this  is  your  son,  Hermiston?"  he  asked, 
laying  his  hand  on  Archie's  shoulder.  **  He's  getting  a 
big  lad." 

"Hout!  "  said  the  gracious  father,  "just  his  mother 
over  again  —  daurna  say  boo  to  a  goose!  " 

But  the  stranger  retained  the  boy,  talked  to  him, 
drew  him  out,  found  in  him  a  taste  for  letters,  and  a 
fine,  ardent,  modest,  youthful  soul;  and  encouraged  him 
to  be  a  visitor  on  Sunday  evenings  in  his  bare,  cold, 
lonely  dining-room,  where  he  sat  and  read  in  the  isola- 
tion of  a  bachelor  grown  old  in  refinement.  The  beau- 
tiful gentleness  and  grace  of  the  old  Judge,  and  the 
delicacy  of  his  person,  thoughts,  and  language,  spoke  to 
Archie's  heart  in  its  own  tongue.  He  conceived  the 
ambition  to  be  such  another;  and,  when  the  day  came 
for  him  to  choose  a  profession,  it  was  in  emulation  of 
Lord  Glenalmond,  not  of  Lord  Hermiston,  that  he  chose 
the  Bar.  Hermiston  looked  on  at  this  friendship  with 
some  secret  pride,  but  openly  with  the  intolerance  of 
scorn.  He  scarce  lost  an  opportunity  to  put  them  down 
with  a  rough  jape;  and,  to  say  truth,  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult, for  they  were  neither  of  them  quick.  He  had  a 
word  of  contempt  for  the  whole  crowd  of  poets,  paint- 
ers, fiddlers,  and  their  admirers,  the  bastard  race  of 
amateurs,  which  was  continually  on  his  lips.  *'  Signor 
Feedle-eerie!"  he  would  say.  "Oh,  for  Goad's  sake, 
no  more  of  the  signor! " 

"You  and  my  father  are  great  friends,  are  you  001?** 
asked  Archie  once. 

33 


FATHER  AND  SON 

**  There  is  no  man  that  I  more  respect,  Archie,"  re- 
plied Lord  Glenalmond.  "He  is  two  things  of  price. 
He  is  a  great  lawyer,  and  he  is  upright  as  the  day." 

"You  and  he  are  so  different,"  said  the  boy,  his  eyes 
dwelling  on  those  of  his  old  friend,  like  a  lover's  on  his 
mistress's. 

"Indeed  so,"  replied  the  Judge;  "very  different. 
And  so  I  fear  are  you  and  he.  Yet  I  would  like  it  very 
ill  if  my  young  friend  were  to  misjudge  his  father.  He 
has  all  the  Roman  virtues :  Cato  and  Brutus  were  such ; 
I  think  a  son's  heart  might  well  be  proud  of  such  an 
ancestry  of  one." 

"And  I  would  sooner  he  were  a  plaided  herd,"  cried 
Archie,  with  sudden  bitterness. 

"And  that  is  neither  very  wise,  nor  I  believe  entirely 
true,"  returned  Glenalmond.  "Before  you  are  done 
you  will  find  some  of  these  expressions  rise  on  you  like 
a  remorse.  They  are  merely  literary  and  decorative; 
they  do  not  aptly  express  your  thought,  nor  is  your 
thought  clearly  apprehended,  and  no  doubt  your  father 
(if  he  were  here)  would  say  'Signor  Feedle-eerie! '  " 

With  the  infinitely  delicate  sense  of  youth,  Archie 
avoided  the  subject  from  that  hour.  It  was  perhaps  a 
pity.  Had  he  but  talked  —  talked  freely  —  let  himself 
gush  out  in  words  (the  way  youth  loves  to  do  and 
should),  there  might  have  been  no  tale  to  write  upon 
the  Weirs  of  Hermiston.  But  the  shadow  of  a  threat 
of  ridicule  sufficed ;  in  the  slight  tartness  of  these  words 
he  read  a  prohibition ;  and  it  is  likely  that  Glenalmond 
meant  it  so. 

Besides  the  veteran,  the  boy  was  without  confidant 
or  friend.     Serious  and  eager,  he  came  through  school 

23 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

and  college,  and  moved  among  a  crowd  of  the  indiffer- 
ent, in  the  seclusion  of  his  shyness.  He  grew  up  hand- 
some, with  an  open,  speaking  countenance,  with  grace- 
ful, youthful  ways;  he  was  clever,  he  took  prizes,  he 
shone  in  the  Speculative  Society.^  It  should  seem  he 
must  become  the  centre  of  a  crowd  of  friends ;  but 
something  that  was  in  part  the  delicacy  of  his  mother, 
in  part  the  austerity  of  his  father,  held  him  aloof  from 
all.  It  is  a  fact,  and  a  strange  one,  that  among  his  con- 
temporaries Hermiston's  son  was  thought  to  be  a  chip 
of  the  old  block.  "  You're  a  friend  of  Archie  Weir's  ?  " 
said  one  to  Frank  Innes;  and  Innes  replied,  with  his 
usual  flippancy  and  more  than  his  usual  insight:  "I 
know  Weir,  but  I  never  met  Archie. "  No  one  had  met 
Archie,  a  malady  most  incident  to  only  sons.  He  flew 
his  private  signal,  and  none  heeded  it;  it  seemed  he 
was  abroad  in  a  world  from  which  the  very  hope  of  in- 
timacy was  banished;  and  he  looked  round  about  him 
on  the  concourse  of  his  fellow-students,  and  forward  to 
the  trivial  days  and  acquaintances  that  were  to  come, 
without  hope  or  interest. 

As  time  went  on,  the  tough  and  rough  old  sinner 
felt  himself  drawn  to  the  son  of  his  loins  and  sole  con- 
tinuator  of  his  new  family,  with  softnesses  of  sentiment 
that  he  could  hardly  credit  and  was  wholly  impotent  to 
express.  With  a  face,  voice  and  manner  trained  through 
forty  years  to  terrify  and  repel,  Rhadamanthus  may  be 
great,  but  he  will  scarce  be  engaging.  It  is  a  fact  that 
he  tried  to  propitiate  Archie,  but  a  fact  that  cannot  be 
too  lightly  taken;  the  attempt  was  so  unconspicuously 
made,  the  failure  so  stoically  supported.  Sympathy  is 
J- A  famous  debating  society  of  the  students  of  Edinburgh  University. 


FATHER  AND  SON 

not  due  to  these  steadfast  iron  natures.  If  he  failed  to 
gain  his  son's  friendship,  or  even  his  son's  toleration, 
on  he  went  up  the  great,  bare  staircase  of  his  duty,  un- 
cheered  and  undepressed.  There  might  have  been 
more  pleasure  in  his  relations  with  Archie,  so  much  he 
may  have  recognized  at  moments;  but  pleasure  was  a 
by-product  of  the  singular  chemistry  of  life,  which  only 
fools  expected. 

An  idea  of  Archie's  attitude,  since  we  are  all  grown 
up  and  have  forgotten  the  days  of  our  youth,  it  is  more 
difficult  to  convey.  He  made  no  attempt  whatsoever 
to  understand  the  man  with  whom  he  dined  and  break- 
fasted. Parsimony  of  pain,  glut  of  pleasure,  these  are 
the  two  alternating  ends  of  youth ;  and  Archie  was  of 
the  parsimonious.  The  wind  blew  cold  out  of  a  certain 
quarter  —  he  turned  his  back  upon  it;  stayed  as  little  as 
was  possible  in  his  father's  presence ;  and  when  there, 
averted  his  eyes  as  much  as  was  decent  from  his  father's 
face.  The  lamp  shone  for  many  hundred  days  upon 
these  two  at  table  —  my  lord  ruddy,  gloomy,  and  un- 
reverent;  Archie  with  a  potential  brightness  that  was 
always  dimmed  and  veiled  in  that  society;  and  there 
were  not,  perhaps,  in  Christendom  two  men  more  rad- 
ically strangers.  The  father,  with  a  grand  simplicity, 
either  spoke  of  what  interested  himself,  or  maintained 
an  unaffected  silence.  The  son  turned  in  his  head  for 
some  topic  that  should  be  quite  safe,  that  would  spare 
him  fresh  evidences  either  of  my  lord's  inherent  gross- 
ness  or  of  the  innocence  of  his  inhumanity;  treading 
gingerly  the  ways  of  intercourse,  like  a  lady  gathering 
up  her  skirts  in  a  by-path.  If  he  made  a  mistake,  and 
my  lord  began  to  abound  in  matter  of  offence,  Archie 


WEIR   OF   HERMISTON 

drew  himself  up,  his  brow  grew  dark,  his  share  of  the 
talk  expired ;  but  my  lord  would  faithfully  and  cheer- 
fully continue  to  pour  out  the  worst  of  himself  before 
his  silent  and  offended  son. 

"  Well,  it's  a  poor  hert  that  never  rejoices,"  he  would 
say,  at  the  conclusion  of  such  a  nightmare  interview. 
"But  I  must  get  to  my  plew-stilts."  And  he  would 
seclude  himself  as  usual  in  the  back  room,  and  Archie 
go  forth  into  the  night  and  the  city  quivering  with  ani- 
mosity and  scorn. 


fl6 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF  DUNCAN  JOPP 

It  chanced  in  the  year  1813  that  Archie  strayed  one 
day  into  the  Judiciary  Court.  The  macer  made  room 
for  the  son  of  the  presiding  judge.  In  the  dock,  the 
centre  of  men's  eyes,  there  stood  a  whey-coloured, 
misbegotten  caitiff,  Duncan  Jopp,  on  trial  for  his  life. 
His  story,  as  it  was  raked  out  before  him  in  that  public 
scene,  was  one  of  disgrace  and  vice  and  cowardice,  the 
very  nakedness  of  crime;  and  the  creature  heard  and  it 
seemed  at  times  as  though  he  understood  —  as  if  at 
times  he  forgot  the  horror  of  the  place  he  stood  in,  and 
remembered  the  shame  of  what  had  brought  him 
there.  He  kept  his  head  bowed  and  his  hands  clutched 
upon  the  rail;  his  hair  dropped  in  his  eyes  and  at  times 
he  flung  it  back;  and  now  he  glanced  about  the  au- 
dience in  a  sudden  fellness  of  terror,  and  now  looked  in 
the  face  of  his  judge  and  gulped.  There  was  pinned 
about  his  throat  a  piece  of  dingy  flannel;  and  this  it 
was  perhaps  that  turned  the  scale  in  Archie's  mind  be- 
tween disgust  and  pity.  The  creature  stood  in  a  van- 
ishing point;  yet  a  little  while,  and  he  was  still  a  man, 
and  had  eyes  and  apprehension ;  yet  a  little  longer,  and 
with  a  last  sordid  piece  of  pageantry,  he  would  cease 

27 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

to  be.  And  here,  in  the  meantime,  with  a  trait  of  hu- 
man nature  that  caught  at  the  beholder's  breath,  he  was 
tending  a  sore  throat. 

Over  against  him,  my  Lord  Hermiston  occupied  the 
bench  in  the  red  robes  of  criminal  jurisdiction,  his  face 
framed  in  the  white  wig.  Honest  all  through,  he  did 
not  affect  the  virtue  of  impartiality;  this  was  no  case 
for  refinement;  there  was  a  man  to  be  hanged,  he  would 
have  said,  and  he  was  hanging  him.  Nor  was  it  possi- 
ble to  see  his  lordship,  and  acquit  him  of  gusto  in  the 
task.  It  was  plain  he  gloried  in  the  exercise  of  his 
trained  faculties,  in  the  clear  sight  which  pierced  at 
once  into  the  joint  of  fact,  in  the  rude,  unvarnished  jibes 
with  which  he  demolished  every  figment  of  defence. 
He  took  his  ease  and  jested,  unbending  in  that  solemn 
place  with  some  of  the  freedom  of  the  tavern;  and  the 
rag  of  man  with  the  flannel  round  his  neck  was  hunted 
gallowsward  with  jeers. 

Duncan  had  a  mistress,  scarce  less  forlorn  and  greatly 
older  than  himself,  who  came  up,  whimpering  and 
curtseying,  to  add  the  weight  of  her  betrayal.  My  lord 
gave  her  the  oath  in  his  most  roaring  voice  and  added 
an  intolerant  warning. 

*'Mind  what  ye  say  now,  Janet,"  said  he.  '*l  have 
an  e'e  upon  ye;  I'm  ill  to  jest  with." 

Presently,  after  she  was  tremblingly  embarked  on  her 
story,  "And  what  made  ye  do  this,  ye  auld  runt  ?"  the 
Court  interposed.  *'  Do  ye  mean  to  tell  me  ye  was  the 
pannel's  mistress  ?  " 

**lf  you  please,  ma  loard,"  whined  the  female. 

"Godsake!  ye  made  a  bonny  couple,"  observed  his 
lordship;  and  there  was  something  so  formidable  and 

28 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF  DUNCAN  JOPP 

ferocious  in  his  scorn  that  not  even  the  galleries  thought 
to  laugh. 

The  summing  up  contained  some  jewels. 

**  These  two  peetiable  creatures  seem  to  have  made 
up  thegither,  it's  not  for  us  to  explain  why." — *'The 
pannel,  who  (whatever  else  he  may  be)  appears  to  be 
equally  ill  set  out  in  mind  and  boady." — '*  Neither  the 
pannel  nor  yet  the  old  wife  appears  to  have  had  so 
much  common  sense  as  even  to  tell  a  lie  when  it  was 
necessary."  And  in  the  course  of  sentencing,  my  lord 
had  this  obiter  dictum :  "  I  have  been  the  means,  under 
God,  of  haanging  a  great  number,  but  never  just  such 
a  disjaskit  rascal  as  yourself."  The  words  were  strong 
in  themselves;  the  light  and  heat  and  detonation  of 
their  delivery,  and  the  savage  pleasure  of  the  speaker  in 
his  task,  made  them  tingle  in  the  ears. 

When  all  was  over,  Archie  came  forth  again  into  a 
changed  world.  Had  there  been  the  least  redeeming 
greatness  in  the  crime,  any  obscurity,  any  dubiety,  per- 
haps he  might  have  understood.  But  the  culprit  stood, 
with  his  sore  throat,  in  the  sweat  of  his  mortal  agony, 
without  defence  or  excuse;  a  thing  to  cover  up  with 
blushes;  a  being  so  much  sunk  beneath  the  zones  of 
sympathy  that  pity  might  seem  harmless.  And  the 
judge  had  pursued  him  with  a  monstrous,  relishing 
gaiety,  horrible  to  be  conceived,  a  trait  for  nightmares. 
It  is  one  thing  to  spear  a  tiger,  another  to  crush  a  toad ; 
there  are  aesthetics  even  of  the  slaughter-house;  and  the 
loathsomeness  of  Duncan  Jopp  enveloped  and  infected 
the  image  of  his  judge. 

Archie  passed  by  his  friends  in  the  High  Street  with 
incoherent  words  and  gestures.     He  saw  Holyrood  in 

29 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

a  dream,  remembrance  of  its  romance  awoke  in  him 
and  faded;  he  had  a  vision  of  the  old  radiant  stories, 
of  Queen  Mary  and  Prince  Charlie,  of  the  hooded  stag, 
of  the  splendor  and  crime,  the  velvet  and  bright  iron 
of  the  past;  and  dismissed  them  with  a  cry  of  pain. 
He  lay  and  moaned  in  the  Hunter's  Bog,  and  the 
heavens  were  dark  above  him  and  the  grass  of  the 
field  an  offence.  "This  is  my  father,"  he  said.  "I 
draw  my  life  from  him;  the  flesh  upon  my  bones  is 
his,  the  bread  I  am  fed  with  is  the  wages  of  these 
horrors."  He  recalled  his  mother,  and  ground  his 
forehead  in  the  earth.  He  thought  of  flight,  and 
where  was  he  to  flee  to  ?  of  other  lives,  but  was  there 
any  life  worth  living  in  this  den  of  savage  and  jeering 
animals  ? 

The  interval  before  the  execution  was  like  a  violent 
dream.  He  met  his  father;  he  would  not  look  at  him, 
he  could  not  speak  to  him.  It  seemed  there  was  no 
living  creature  but  must  have  been  swift  to  recognize 
that  imminent  animosity,  but  the  hide  of  the  Lord  Jus- 
tice-Clerk remained  impenetrable.  Had  my  lord  been 
talkative,  the  truce  could  never  have  subsisted;  but  he 
was  by  fortune  in  one  of  his  humors  of  sour  silence; 
and  under  the  very  guns  of  his  broadside  Archie  nursed 
the  enthusiasm  of  rebellion.  It  seemed  to  him,  from 
the  top  of  his  nineteen  years'  experience,  as  if  he  were 
marked  at  birth  to  be  the  perpetrator  of  some  signal 
action,  to  set  back  fallen  Mercy,  to  overthrow  the 
usurping  devil  that  sat,  horned  and  hoofed,  on  her 
throne.  Seductive  Jacobin  figments,  which  he  had 
often  refuted  at  the  Speculative,  swam  up  in  his  mind 
and  startled  him  as  with  voices;  and  he  seemed  to  him- 

30 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF  DUNCAN  JOPP 

self  to  walk  accompanied  by  an  almost  tangible  pres- 
ence of  new  beliefs  and  duties. 

On  the  named  morning  he  was  at  the  place  of  execu- 
tion. He  saw  the  fleering  rabble,  the  flinching  wretch 
produced.  He  looked  on  for  awhile  at  a  certain  parody 
of  devotion,  which  seemed  to  strip  the  wretch  of  his 
last  claim  to  manhood.  Then  followed  the  brutal  in- 
stant of  extinction,  and  the  paltry  dangling  of  the  re- 
mains like  a  broken  jumping-jack.  He  had  been  pre- 
pared for  something  terrible,  not  for  this  tragic  meanness. 
He  stood  a  moment  silent,  and  then — "\  denounce 
this  God-defying  murder,"  he  shouted;  and  his  father, 
if  he  must  have  disclaimed  the  sentiment,  might  have 
owned  the  stentorian  voice  with  which  it  was  uttered. 

Frank  Innes  dragged  him  from  the  spot.  The  two 
handsome  lads  followed  the  same  course  of  study  and 
recreation,  and  felt  a  certain  mutual  attraction,  founded 
mainly  on  good  looks.  It  had  never  gone  deep;  Frank 
was  by  nature  a  thin,  jeering  creature,  not  truly  suscep- 
tible whether  of  feeling  or  inspiring  friendship;  and  the 
relation  between  the  pair  was  altogether  on  the  outside, 
a  thing  of  common  knowledge  and  the  pleasantries  that 
spring  from  a  common  acquaintance.  The  more  credit 
to  Frank  that  he  was  appalled  by  Archie's  outburst, 
and  at  least  conceived  the  design  of  keeping  him  in 
sight,  and,  if  possible,  in  hand,  for  the  day.  But  Archie, 
who  had  just  defied  —  was  it  God  or  Satan.?  —  would 
not  listen  to  the  word  of  a  college  companion. 

*'  I  will  not  go  with  you,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  desire 
your  company,  sir;  I  would  be  alone." 

*'Here,  Weir,  man,  don't  be  absurd,"  said  Innes, 
keeping  a  tight  hold  upon  his  sleeve.     "I  will  not  let 

3» 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

you  go  until  I  know  what  you  mean  to  do  with  your- 
self; it's  no  use  brandishing  that  staff."  For  indeed  at 
that  moment  Archie  had  made  a  sudden  —  perhaps  a 
warlike  —  movement.  "This  has  been  the  most  in- 
sane affair;  you  know  it  has.  You  know  very  well  that 
I'm  playing  the  good  Samaritan.  All  I  wish  is  to  keep 
you  quiet." 

"  If  quietness  is  what  you  wish,  Mr.  Innes,"  said  Ar- 
chie, "  and  you  will  promise  to  leave  me  entirely  to  my- 
self, 1  will  tell  you  so  much,  that  I  am  going  to  walk  in 
the  country  and  admire  the  beauties  of  nature." 

"  Honor  bright  ?  "  asked  Frank. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  lying,  Mr.  Innes,"  retorted 
Archie.     "  I  have  the  honor  of  wishing  you  good-day." 

"You  won't  forget  the  Spec.  ?"  asked  Innes. 

"  The  Spec.  ?  "  said  Archie.  "  Oh,  no,  I  won't  forget 
the  Spec." 

And  the  one  young  man  carried  his  tortured  spirit 
forth  of  the  city  and  all  the  day  long,  by  one  road  and 
another,  in  an  endless  pilgrimage  of  misery ;  while  the 
other  hastened  smilingly  to  spread  the  news  of  Weir's 
access  of  insanity,  and  to  drum  up  for  that  night  a  full 
attendance  at  the  Speculative,  where  farther  eccentric 
developments  might  certainly  be  looked  for.  I  doubt 
if  Innes  had  the  least  belief  in  his  prediction ;  I  think  it 
flowed  rather  from  a  wish  to  make  the  story  as  good 
and  the  scandal  as  great  as  possible;  not  from  any  ill- 
will  to  Archie  —  from  the  mere  pleasure  of  beholding 
interested  faces.  But  for  all  that  his  words  were  pro- 
phetic. Archie  did  not  forget  the  Spec. ;  he  put  in  an 
appearance  there  at  the  due  time,  and,  before  the  even- 
ing was  over,  had  dealt  a  memorable  shock  to  his  com- 

32 


IN   THE  MATTER  OF  THE   HANGING   OF   DUNCAN  JOPP 

panions.  It  chanced  he  was  the  president  of  the  night. 
He  sat  in  the  same  room  where  the  society  still  meets 

—  only  the  portraits  were  not  there;  the  men  who  after- 
wards sat  for  them  were  then  but  beginning  their  career. 
The  same  lustre  of  many  tapers  shed  its  light  over  the 
meeting;  the  same  chair,  perhaps,  supported  him  that 
so  many  of  us  have  sat  in  since.  At  times  he  seemed 
to  forget  the  business  of  the  evening,  but  even  in  these 
periods  he  sat  with  a  great  air  of  energy  and  determina- 
tion. At  times  he  meddled  bitterly  and  launched  with 
defiance  those  fines  which  are  the  precious  and  rarely 
used  artillery  of  the  president.  He  little  thought,  as  he 
did  so,  how  he  resembled  his  father,  but  his  friends  re- 
marked upon  it,  chuckling.  So  far,  in  his  high  place 
above  his  fellow-students,  he  seemed  set  beyond  the 
possibility  of  any  scandal;  but  his  mind  was  made  up 

—  he  was  determined  to  fulfil  the  sphere  of  his  offence. 
He  signed  to  Innes  (whom  he  had  just  fined,  and 
who  just  impeached  his  ruling)  to  succeed  him  in  the 
chair,  stepped  down  from  the  platform,  and  took  his 
place  by  the  chimney-piece,  the  shine  of  many  wax 
tapers  from  above  illuminating  his  pale  face,  the  glow 
of  the  great  red  fire  relieving  from  behind  his  slim  figure. 
He  had  to  propose,  as  an  amendment  to  the  next  sub- 
ject in  the  case  book,  '*  Whether  capital  punishment  be 
consistent  with  God's  will  or  man's  policy  ?  " 

A  breath  of  embarrassment,  of  something  like  alarm, 
passed  round  the  room,  so  daring  did  these  words  ap- 
pear upon  the  lips  of  Hermiston's  only  son.  But  the 
amendment  was  not  seconded;  the  previous  question 
was  promptly  moved  and  unanimously  voted,  and  the 
momentary  scandal  smuggled  by.     Innes  triumphed  in 

33 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

the  fulfilment  of  his  prophecy.  He  and  Archie  were 
now  become  the  heroes  of  the  night;  but  whereas 
everyone  crowded  about  Innes,  when  the  meeting  broke 
up,  but  one  of  all  his  companions  came  to  speak  to 
Archie. 

"Weir,  man!  that  was  an  extraordinary  raid  of 
yours!"  observed  this  courageous  member,  taking  him 
confidentially  by  the  arm  as  they  went  out. 

"  I  don't  think  it  a  raid,"  said  Archie  grimly.  **  More 
like  a  war.  I  saw  that  poor  brute  hanged  this  morn- 
ing, and  my  gorge  rises  at  it  yet." 

**  Hut-tut!"  returned  his  companion,  and,  dropping 
his  arm  like  something  hot,  he  sought  the  less  tense  so- 
ciety of  others. 

Archie  found  himself  alone.  The  last  of  the  faithful 
—  or  was  it  only  the  boldest  of  the  curious  ?  —  had  fled. 
He  watched  the  black  huddle  of  his  fellow-students 
draw  off  down  and  up  the  street,  in  whispering  or  bois- 
terous gangs.  And  the  isolation  of  the  moment  weighed 
upon  him  like  an  omen  and  an  emblem  of  his  destiny 
in  life.  Bred  up  in  unbroken  fear  himself,  among 
trembling  servants,  and  in  a  house  which  (at  the  least 
ruffle  in  the  master's  voice)  shuddered  into  silence,  he 
saw  himself  on  the  brink  of  the  red  valley  of  war,  and 
measured  the  danger  and  length  of  it  with  awe.  He 
made  a  detour  in  the  glimmer  and  shadow  of  the  streets, 
came  into  the  back  stable  lane,  and  watched  for  a  long 
while  the  light  burn  steady  in  the  Judge's  room.  The 
longer  he  gazed  upon  that  illuminated  window-blind, 
the  more  blank  became  the  picture  of  the  man  who  sat 
behind  it,  endlessly  turning  over  sheets  of  process, 
pausing  to  sip  a  glass  of  port,  or  rising  and  passing 

34 


IN  THE   MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF   DUNCAN  JOPP 

heavily  about  his  book-lined  walls  to  verify  some 
reference.  He  could  not  combine  the  brutal  judge  and 
the  industrious,  dispassionate  student;  the  connecting 
link  escaped  him ;  from  such  a  dual  nature,  it  was  im- 
possible he  should  predict  behaviour;  and  he  asked  him- 
self if  he  had  done  well  to  plunge  into  a  business  of 
which  the  end  could  not  be  foreseen;  and  presently 
after,  with  a  sickening  decline  of  confidence,  if  he  had 
done  loyally  to  strike  his  father.  For  he  had  struck 
him  —  defied  him  twice  over  and  before  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses—  struck  him  a  public  buffet  before  crowds. 
Who  had  called  him  to  judge  his  father  in  these  precari- 
ous and  high  questions  ?  The  office  was  usurped.  It 
might  have  become  a  stranger;  in  a  son  —  there  was  no 
blinking  it  —  in  a  son,  it  was  disloyal.  And  now,  be- 
tween these  two  natures  so  antipathetic,  so  hateful  to 
each  other,  there  was  depending  an  unpardonable  af- 
front: and  the  providence  of  God  alone  might  foresee 
the  manner  in  which  it  would  be  resented  by  Lord 
Hermiston. 

These  misgivings  tortured  him  all  night  and  arose 
with  him  in  the  winter's  morning;  they  followed  him 
from  class  to  class,  they  made  him  shrinkingly  sensitive 
to  every  shade  of  manner  in  his  companions,  they 
sounded  in  his  ears  through  the  current  voice  oi^the 
professor;  and  he  brought  them  home  with  him  at 
night  unabated  and  indeed  increased.  The  cause  of 
this  increase  lay  in  a  chance  encounter  with  the  cele- 
brated Dr.  Gregory.  Archie  stood  looking  vaguely  in 
the  lighted  window  of  a  book  shop,  trying  to  nerve 
himself  for  the  approaching  ordeal.  My  lord  and  he 
had  met  and  parted  in  the  morning  as  they  had  now 

35 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

done  for  long,  with  scarcely  the  ordinary  civilities  of 
life;  and  it  was  plain  to  the  son  that  nothing  had  yet 
reached  the  father's  ears.  Indeed,  when  he  recalled  the 
awful  countenance  of  my  lord,  a  timid  hope  sprang  up 
in  him  that  perhaps  there  would  be  found  no  one  bold 
enough  to  carry  tales.  If  this  were  so,  he  asked  him- 
self, would  he  begin  again  ?  and  he  found  no  answer. 
It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his 
arm,  and  a  voice  said  in  his  ear,  **  My  dear  Mr.  Archie, 
you  had  better  come  and  see  me." 

He  started,  turned  around,  and  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  Dr.  Gregory.  "And  why  should  I  come  to 
see  you  ? "  he  asked,  with  the  defiance  of  the  miser- 
able. 

*' Because  you  are  looking  exceeding  ill,"  said  the 
doctor,  "and  you  very  evidently  want  looking  after, 
my  young  friend.  Good  folk  are  scarce,  you  know; 
and  it  is  not  everyone  that  would  be  quite  so  much 
missed  as  yourself.  It  is  not  everyone  that  Hermiston 
would  miss." 

And  with  a  nod  and  smile,  the  doctor  passed  on. 

A  moment  after,  Archie  was  in  pursuit,  and  had  in 
turn,  but  more  roughly,  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"What  do  you  mean.?  what  did  you  mean  by  say- 
ing '^at?  What  makes  you  think  that  Hermis  —  my 
father  would  have  missed  me  ?" 

The  doctor  turned  about  and  looked  him  all  over  with 
a  clinical  eye.  A  far  more  stupid  man  than  Dr.  Gregory 
might  have  guessed  the  truth ;  but  ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred,  even  if  they  had  been  equally  inclined  to  kind- 
ness, would  have  blundered  by  some  touch  of  charita- 
ble exaggeration.    The  doctor  was  better  inspired.    He 

}6 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE   HANGING   OF   DUNCAN  JOPP 

Knew  the  father  well ;  in  that  white  face  of  intelligence 
and  suffering,  he  divined  something  of  the  son;  and  he 
told,  without  apology  or  adornment,  the  plain  truth. 

"When  you  had  the  measles,  Mr.  Archibald,  you 
had  them  gey  and  ill;  and  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
slip  between  my  fingers,"  he  said.  "  Well,  your  father 
was  anxious.  How  did  I  know  it  ?  says  you.  Simply 
because  I  am  a  trained  observer.  The  sign  that  I  saw 
him  make,  ten  thousand  would  have  missed;  and  per- 
haps— perhaps,  I  say,  because  he's  a  hard  man  to  judge 
of — but  perhaps  he  never  made  another.  A  strange 
thing  to  consider !  It  was  this.  One  day  I  came  to  him : 
*Hermiston,'  said  I,  'there's  a  change.'  He  never  said 
a  word,  just  glowered  at  me  (if  ye'll  pardon  the  phrase) 
like  a  wild  beast.  *A  change  for  the  better,'  said  I. 
And  I  distinctly  heard  him  take  his  breath." 

The  doctor  left  no  opportunity  for  anti-climax;  nod- 
ding his  cocked  hat  (a  piece  of  antiquity  to  which  he 
clung)  and  repeating  "Distinctly"  with  raised  eye- 
brows, he  took  his  departure,  and  left  Archie  speechless 
in  the  street. 

The  anecdote  might  be  called  infinitely  little,  and  yet 
its  meaning  for  Archie  was  immense.  "  I  did  not  know 
the  old  man  had  so  much  blood  in  him."  He  had  never 
dreamed  this  sire  of  his,  this  aboriginal  antique,  this 
adamantine  Adam,  had  even  so  much  of  a  heart  as  to  be 
moved  in  the  least  degree  for  another  —  and  that  other 
himself,  who  had  insulted  him !  With  the  generosity 
of  youth,  Archie  was  instantly  under  arms  upon  the 
other  side :  had  instantly  created  a  new  image  of  Lord 
Hermiston,  that  of  a  man  who  was  all  iron  without  and 
all  sensibility  within.     The  mind  of  the  vile  jester,  the 

37 


WEIR   OF   HERMISTON 

tongue  that  had  pursued  Duncan  Jopp  with  unmanly 
insults,  the  unbeloved  countenance  that  he  had  known 
and  feared  for  so  long,  were  all  forgotten;  and  he  has- 
tened home,  impatient  to  confess  his  misdeeds,  impa- 
tient to  throw  himself  on  the  mercy  of  this  imaginary 
character. 

He  was  not  to  be  long  without  a  rude  awakening. 
It  was  in  the  gloaming  when  he  drew  near  the  doorstep 
of  the  lighted  house,  and  was  aware  of  the  figure  of  his 
father  approaching  from  the  opposite  side.  Little  day- 
light lingered;  but  on  the  door  being  opened,  the  strong 
yellow  shine  of  the  lamp  gushed  out  upon  the  landing 
and  shone  full  on  Archie,  as  he  stood,  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned observance  of  respect,  to  yield  precedence.  The 
Judge  came  without  haste,  stepping  stately  and  firm; 
his  chin  raised,  his  face  (as  he  entered  the  lamplight) 
strongly  illumined,  his  mouth  set  hard.  There  was 
never  a  wink  of  change  in  his  expression;  without  look- 
ing to  the  right  or  left,  he  mounted  the  stair,  passed 
close  to  Archie,  and  entered  the  house.  Instinctively, 
the  boy,  upon  his  first  coming,  had  made  a  movement 
to  meet  him ;  instinctively,  he  recoiled  against  the  rail- 
ing, as  the  old  man  swept  by  him  in  a  pomp  of  indig- 
nation. Words  were  needless;  he  knew  all  —  perhaps 
more  than  all  —  and  the  hour  of  judgment  was  at  hand. 

It  is  possible  that,  in  this  sudden  revulsion  of  hope 
and  before  these  symptoms  of  impending  danger,  Archie 
might  have  fled.  But  not  even  that  was  left  to  him.  My 
lord,  after  hanging  up  his  cloak  and  hat,  turned  round  in 
the  lighted  entry,  and  made  him  an  imperative  and  silent 
gesture  with  his  thumb,  and  with  the  strange  instinct  of 
obedience,  Archie  followed  him  into  the  house. 

38 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF  DUNCAN  JOPP 

All  dinner  time  there  reigned  over  the  Judge's  table 
a  palpable  silence,  and  as  soon  as  the  solids  were  des- 
patched he  rose  to  his  feet. 

" M'Killop,  tak'  the  wine  into  my  room,"  said  he; 
and  then  to  his  son:  "Archie,  you  and  me  has  to  have 
a  talk." 

It  was  at  this  sickening  moment  that  Archie's  cour- 
age, for  the  first  and  last  time,  entirely  deserted  him. 
"  I  have  an  appointment,"  said  he. 

* 'It'll  have  to  be  broken,  then,"  said  Hermiston,  and 
led  the  way  into  his  study. 

The  lamp  was  shaded,  the  fire  trimmed  to  a  nicety, 
the  table  covered  deep  with  orderly  documents,  the 
backs  of  law  books  made  a  frame  upon  all  sides  that 
was  only  broken  by  the  window  and  the  doors. 

For  a  moment  Hermiston  warmed  his  hands  at  the 
fire,  presenting  his  back  to  Archie;  then  suddenly  dis- 
closed on  him  the  terrors  of  the  Hanging  Face. 

"What's  this  I  hear  of  ye!"  he  asked. 

There  was  no  answer  possible  to  Archie. 

"I'll  have  to  tell  ye,  then,"  pursued  Hermiston.  "It 
seems  ye've  been  skirling  against  the  father  that  begot 
ye,  and  one  of  His  Maijesty's  Judges  in  this  land;  and 
that  in  the  public  street,  and  while  an  order  of  the 
Court  was  being  executit.  Forbye  which,  it  would 
appear  that  ye've  been  airing  your  opeenions  in  a  Coal- 
lege  Debatin'  Society,"  he  paused  a  moment:  and, 
then,  with  extraordinary  bitterness,  added:  "Ye 
damned  eediot." 

"I  had  meant  to  tell  you,"  stammered  Archie.  "I 
see  you  are  well  informed." 

"  Muckle  obleeged  to  ye,"  said  his  lordship,  and  took 

39 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

his  usual  seat.  **And  so  you  disapprove  of  caapital 
punishment  ?  "  he  added. 

**  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  do,"  said  Archie. 

"I  am  sorry,  too,"  said  his  lordship.  '*  And  now, 
if  you  please,  we  shall  approach  this  business  with  a 
little  more  parteecularity.  I  hear  that  at  the  hanging 
of  Duncan  Jopp  —  and,  man!  ye  had  a  fine  client  there 
—  in  the  middle  of  all  the  riffraff  of  the  ceety,  ye  thought 
fit  to  cry  out,  *  This  is  a  damned  murder,  and  my  gorge 
rises  at  the  man  that  haangit  him.'  " 

"No,  sir,  these  were  not  my  words,"  cried  Archie. 

"What  were  ye'r  words,  then  ?"  asked  the  Judge. 

*'  I  believe  I  said,  *  I  denounce  it  as  a  murder! '  "  said 
the  son,  '*  I  beg  your  pardon  —  a  God-defying  murder. 
I  have  no  wish  to  conceal  the  truth,"  he  added,  and 
looked  his  father  for  a  moment  in  the  face. 

"God,  it  would  only  need  that  of  it  next!"  cried 
Hermiston.  "There  was  nothing  about  your  gorge 
rising,  then  ?  " 

"That  was  afterwards,  my  lord,  as  I  was  leaving  the 
Speculative.  I  said  I  had  been  to  see  the  miserable 
creature  hanged,  and  my  gorge  rose  at  it." 

"Did  ye,  though?"  said  Hermiston.  "And  I  sup- 
pose ye  knew  who  haangit  him  ?  " 

"I  was  present  at  the  trial,  I  ought  to  tell  you  that, 
I  ought  to  explain.  I  ask  your  pardon  beforehand  for 
any  expression  that  may  seem  undutiful.  The  position 
in  which  I  stand  is  wretched,"  said  the  unhappy  hero, 
now  fairly  face  to  face  with  the  business  he  had  chosen. 
"  I  have  been  reading  some  of  your  cases.  I  was  pres- 
ent while  Jopp  was  tried.  It  was  a  hideous  business. 
Father,  it  was  a  hideous  thing!    Grant  he  was  vile, 

40 


IN   THE   MATTER  OF  THE  HANGING  OF  DUNCAN  JOPP 

why  should  you  hunt  him  with  a  vileness  equal  to  his 
own?  It  was  done  with  glee  —  that  is  the  word  — 
you  did  it  with  glee;  and  I  looked  on,  God  help  me! 
with  horror." 

"You're  a  young  gentleman  that  doesna  approve  of 
caapital  punishment,"  said  Hermiston.  '*  Weel,  I'm 
an  auld  man  that  does.  I  was  glad  to  get  Jopp  haangit, 
and  what  for  would  I  pretend  I  wasna  ?  You're  all  for 
honesty,  it  seems;  you  couldn't  even  steik  your  mouth 
on  the  public  street.  What  for  should  I  steik  mines 
upon  the  bench,  the  King's  officer,  bearing  the  sword,  a 
dreid  to  evil-doers,  as  I  was  from  the  beginning,  and 
as  I  will  be  to  the  end!  Mair  than  enough  of  it!  Hee- 
dious!  I  never  gave  twa  thoughts  to  heediousness,  I 
have  no  call  to  be  bonny.  I'm  a  man  that  gets  through 
with  my  day's  business,  and  let  that  suffice." 

The  ring  of  sarcasm  had  died  out  of  his  voice  as  he 
went  on ;  the  plain  words  became  invested  with  some 
of  the  dignity  of  the  justice-seat. 

"  It  would  be  telling  you  if  you  could  say  as  much," 
the  speaker  resumed.  **  But  ye  cannot.  **  Ye've  been 
reading  some  of  my  cases,  ye  say.  But  it  was  not  for 
the  law  in  them,  it  was  to  spy  out  your  faither's  naked- 
ness, a  fine  employment  in  a  son.  You're  splairging; 
you're  running  at  lairge  in  life  like  a  wild  nowt.  It's 
impossible  you  should  think  any  longer  of  coming  to 
the  Bar.  You're  not  fit  for  it;  no  splairger  is.  And 
another  thing:  son  of  mines  or  no  son  of  mines,  you 
have  flung  fylement  in  public  on  one  of  the  Senators 
of  the  Coallege  of  Justice,  and  I  would  make  it  my  busi- 
ness to  see  that  ye  were  never  admitted  there  yourself 
There  is  a  kind  of  a  decency  to  be  observit.    Then  comes 

4» 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

the  next  of  it  —  what  am  I  to  do  with  ye  next?  Ye'Il 
have  to  find  some  kind  of  a  trade,  for  I'll  never  support 
ye  in  idleset.  What  do  ye  fancy  ye'll  be  fit  for  ?  The 
pulpit  ?  Na,  they  could  never  get  diveenity  into  that 
bloackhead.  Him  that  the  law  of  man  whammles  is 
no  likely  to  do  muckle  better  by  the  law  of  God.  What 
would  ye  make  of  hell  ?  Wouldna  your  gorge  rise  at 
that?  Na,  there's  no  room  for  splairgers  under  the 
fower  quarters  of  John  Calvin.  What  else  is  there  ? 
Speak  up.     Have  ye  got  nothing  of  your  own  ?  " 

"Father,  let  me  go  to  the  Peninsula,"  said  Archie. 
''That's  all  I'm  fit  for  — to  fight." 

**A11?  quo'  he!"  returned  the  Judge.  **And  it 
would  be  enough  too,  if  I  thought  it.  But  I'll  never 
trust  ye  so  near  the  French,  you  that's  so  Frenchifeed." 

"You  do  me  injustice  there,  sir,"  said  Archie.  "I 
am  loyal;  I  will  not  boast;  but  any  interest  I  may  have 
ever  felt  in  the  French  —  " 

"  Have  ye  been  so  loyal  to  to  me?"  interrupted  his 
father. 

There  came  no  reply. 

"  I  think  not,"  continued  Hermiston.  "  And  I  would 
send  no  man  to  be  a  servant  to  the  King,  God  bless 
him !  that  has  proved  such  a  shauchling  son  to  his  own 
faither.  You  can  splairge  here  on  Edinburgh  street,  and 
Where's  the  hairm  ?  It  doesna  play  buff  on  me!  And 
if  there  were  twenty  thousand  eediots  like  yourself,  sor- 
row a  Duncan  Jopp  would  hang  the  fewer.  But  there's 
no  splairging  possible  in  a  camp;  and  if  you  were  to  go 
to  it,  you  would  find  out  for  yourself  whether  Lord 
Well'n'ton  approves  of  caapital  punishment  or  not.  You 
a  sodger!"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  scorn. 

43 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  THE   HANGING  OF  DUNCAN  JOPP 

**Ye  auld  wife,  the  sodgers  would  bray  at  ye  like 
cuddies! " 

As  at  the  drawing  of  a  curtain,  Archie  was  aware  of 
some  illogicality  in  his  position,  and  stood  abashed. 
He  had  a  strong  impression,  besides,  of  the  essential 
valour  of  the  old  gentleman  before  him,  how  conveyed 
it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

**Well,  have  ye  no  other  proposeetion  ?  "  said  my 
lord  again. 

"You  have  taken  this  so  calmly,  sir,  that  I  cannot 
but  stand  ashamed,"  began  Archie. 

"I'm  nearer  voamiting,  though,  than  you  would 
fancy,"  said  my  lord. 

The  blood  rose  to  Archie's  brow. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  should  have  said  that  you 
had  accepted  my  affront.  ...  I  admit  it  was  an  af- 
front; I  did  not  think  to  apologise,  but  I  do,  I  ask  your 
pardon ;  it  will  not  be  so  again,  I  pass  you  my  word  of 
honour.  ...  I  should  have  said  that  I  admired  your 
magnanimity  with  —  this — offender,"  Archie  concluded 
with  a  gulp. 

"  I  have  no  other  son,  ye  see,"  said  Hermiston.  "  A 
bonny  one  I  have  gotten!  But  I  must  just  do  the  best 
I  can  wi'  him,  and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  If  ye  had  been 
younger,  I  would  have  wheepit  ye  for  this  rideeculous 
exhibeetion.  The  way  it  is,  I  have  just  to  grin  and  bear. 
But  one  thing  is  to  be  clearly  understood.  As  a  faither,  I 
must  grin  and  bear  it;  but  if  1  had  been  the  Lord  Advo- 
cate instead  of  the  Lord  Justice-Clerk,  son  or  no  son,  Mr. 
Erchibald  Weir  would  have  been  in  a  jyle  the  night." 

Archie  was  now  dominated.  Lord  Hermiston  was 
coarse  and  cruel;   and  yet   the  son  was  aware  of  a 

43 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

bloomless  nobility,  an  ungracious  abnegation  of  the 
man's  self  in  the  man's  office.  At  every  word,  this 
sense  of  the  greatness  of  Lord  Hermiston's  spirit  struck 
more  home;  and  along  with  it  that  of  his  own  impo- 
tence, who  had  struck  —  and  perhaps  basely  struck  — 
at  his  own  father,  and  not  reached  so  far  as  to  have 
even  nettled  him. 

' '  I  place  myself  in  your  hands  without  reserve, "  he  said. 

**  That's  the  first  sensible  word  I've  had  of  ye  the 
night,"  said  Hermiston.  **I  can  tell  ye,  that  would 
have  been  the  end  of  it,  the  one  way  or  the  other;  but 
it's  better  ye  should  come  there  yourself,  than  what  I 
would  have  had  to  hirstle  ye.  Weel,  by  my  way  of  it 
—  and  my  way  is  the  best  —  there's  just  the  one  thing 
it's  possible  that  ye  might  be  with  decency,  and  that's 
a  laird.  Ye'll  be  out  of  hairm's  way  at  the  least  of  it. 
If  ye  have  to  rowt,  ye  can  rowt  amang  the  kye;  and 
the  maist  feck  of  the  caapital  punishment  yeVe  like 
to  come  across'll  be  guddling  trouts.  Now,  I'm  for  no 
idle  lairdies;  every  man  has  to  work,  if  it's  only  at  ped- 
dling ballants;  to  work,  or  to  be  wheeped,  or  to  be 
haangit.  If  1  set  ye  down  at  Hermiston,  I'll  have  to  see 
you  work  that  place  the  way  it  has  never  been  workit 
yet;  ye  must  ken  about  the  sheep  like  a  herd;  ye  must 
be  my  grieve  there,  and  I'll  see  that  I  gain  by  ye.  Is 
that  understood  ?  " 

*M  will  do  my  best,"  said  Archie. 

*'Well,  then,  I'll  send  Kirstie  word  the  morn,  and 
ye  can  go  yourself  the  day  after,"  said  Hermiston. 
"  And  just  try  to  be  less  of  an  eediot!  "  he  concluded, 
with  a  freezing  smile,  and  turned  immediately  to  the 
papers  on  his  desk. 

44 


CHAPTER  IV 


OPINION   OF  THE   BENCH 


Late  the  same  night,  after  a  disordered  walk,  Archie 
was  admitted  into  Lord  Glenalmond's  dining-room 
where  he  sat,  with  a  book  upon  his  knee,  beside  three 
frugal  coals  of  fire.  In  his  robes  upon  the  bench.  Glen- 
almond  had  a  certain  air  of  burliness :  plucked  of  these, 
it  was  a  may-pole  of  a  man  that  rose  unsteadily  from 
his  chair  to  give  his  visitor  welcome.  Archie  had  suf- 
fered much  in  the  last  days,  he  had  suffered  again  that 
evening;  his  face  was  white  and  drawn,  his  eyes  wild 
and  dark.  But  Lord  Glenalmond  greeted  him  without 
the  least  mark  of  surprise  or  curiosity. 

**Come  in,  come  in,"  said  he.  "Come  in  and  take 
a  seat.  Carstairs  "  (to  his  servant),  "  make  up  the  fire, 
and  then  you  can  bring  a  bit  of  supper,"  and  again  to 
Archie,  with  a  very  trivial  accent:  **I  was  half  expect- 
ing you,"  he  added. 

''No  supper,"  said  Archie.  *Mt  is  impossible  that  I 
should  eat." 

"Not  impossible,"  said  the  tall  old  man,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  **  and,  if  you  will  believe  me, 
necessary. " 

"You  know  what  brings  me?"  said  Archie,  as  soon 
as  the  servant  had  left  the  room. 

45 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

'*  I  have  a  guess,  I  have  a  guess,"  replied  Glenalmond. 
'*  We  will  talk  of  it  presently  —  when  Carstairs  has 
come  and  gone,  and  you  have  had  a  piece  of  my  good 
Cheddar  cheese  and  a  pull  at  the  porter  tankard:  not 
before." 

"It  is  impossible  I  should  eat,"  repeated  Archie. 

*'Tut,  tut!"  said  Lord  Glenalmond.  "You  have 
eaten  nothing  to-day,  and,  I  venture  to  add,  nothing 
yesterday.  There  is  no  case  that  may  not  be  made 
worse;  this  may  be  a  very  disagreeable  business,  but 
if  you  were  to  fall  sick  and  die,  it  would  be  still  more 
so,  and  for  all  concerned  —  for  all  concerned." 

"I  see  you  must  know  all,"  said  Archie.  "Where 
did  you  hear  it?" 

"In  the  mart  of  scandal,  in  the  Parliament  House," 
said  Glenalmond.  "It  runs  riot  below  among  the  bar 
and  the  public,  but  it  sifts  up  to  us  upon  the  bench,  and 
rumour  has  some  of  her  voices  even  in  the  divisions." 

Carstairs  returned  at  this  moment,  and  rapidly  laid 
out  a  little  supper;  during  which  Lord  Glenalmond 
spoke  at  large  and  a  little  vaguely  on  indifferent  sub- 
jects, so  that  it  might  be  rather  said  of  him  that  he 
made  a  cheerful  noise,  than  that  he  contributed  to  hu- 
man conversation ;  and  Archie  sat  upon  the  other  side, 
not  heeding  him,  brooding  over  his  wrongs  and  errors. 

But  so  soon  as  the  servant  was  gone,  he  broke  forth 
again  at  once.  "Who  told  my  father?  Who  dared 
to  tell  him  ?    Could  it  have  been  you  ?  " 

"No,  it  was  not  me,"  said  the  Judge;  "although  — 
to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  and  after  I  had  seen  and 
warned  you  —  it  might  have  been  me.  I  believe  it  was 
Glenkindie." 

46 


OPINION   OF  THE   BENCH 

•'That  shrimp!"  cried  Archie. 

''As  you  say,  that  shrimp,"  returned  my  lord;  "  al- 
though really  it  is  scarce  a  fitting  mode  of  expression 
for  one  of  the  Senators  of  the  College  of  Justice.  We 
were  hearing  the  parties  in  a  long,  crucial  case,  before 
the  fifteen;  Creech  was  moving  at  some  length  for  an 
infeftment;  when  I  saw  Glenkindie  lean  forward  to 
Hermiston  with  his  hand  over  his  mouth  and  make  him 
a  secret  communication.  No  one  could  have  guessed  its 
nature  from  your  father;  from  Glenkindie,  yes,  his  malice 
sparked  out  of  him  a  little  grossly.  But  your  father, 
no.  A  man  of  granite.  The  next  moment  he  pounced 
upon  Creech.  'Mr.  Creech,'  says  he.  Til  take  a  look 
of  that  sasine,'  and  for  thirty  minutes  after,"  said  Glen- 
almond,  with  a  smile,  "Messrs.  Creech  and  Co.  were 
fighting  a  pretty  uphill  battle,  which  resulted,  I  need 
hardly  add,  in  their  total  rout.  The  case  was  dismissed. 
No,  I  doubt  if  ever  I  heard  Hermiston  better  inspired. 
He  was  literally  rejoicing  in  apicibus  juris.'' 

Archie  was  able  to  endure  no  longer.  He  thrust  his 
plate  away  and  interrupted  the  deliberate  and  insignifi- 
cant stream  of  talk.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "I  have  made  a 
fool  of  myself,  if  I  have  not  made  something  worse.  Do 
you  judge  between  us  —  judge  between  a  father  and  a 
son.  I  can  speak  to  you;  it  is  not  like  ....  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  feel  and  what  I  mean  to  do;  and  you 
shall  be  the  judge,"  he  repeated. 

"I  decline  jurisdiction,"  said  Glenalmond  with  ex- 
treme seriousness.  "But,  my  dear  boy,  if  it  will  do 
you  any  good  to  talk,  and  if  it  will  interest  you  at  all 
to  hear  what  I  may  choose  to  say  when  I  have  heard 
you,  I  am  quite  at  your  command.     Let  an  old  man 

47 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

say  it,  for  once,  and  not  need  to  blush :  I  love  you  like 
a  son." 

There  came  a  sudden  sharp  sound  in  Archie's  throat. 
"Ay,"  he  cried,  "and  there  it  is!  Love!  Like  a  son! 
And  how  do  you  think  I  love  my  father.^" 

"Quietly,  quietly,"  says  my  lord. 

"I  will  be  very  quiet,"  replied  Archie.  "And  I  will 
be  baldly  frank.  1  do  not  love  my  father;  I  wonder 
sometimes  if  I  do  not  hate  him.  There's  my  shame; 
perhaps  my  sin ;  at  least,  and  in  the  sight  of  God,  not 
my  fault.  How  was  I  to  love  him  ?  He  nas  never 
spoken  to  me,  never  smiled  upon  me;  I  do  not  think 
he  ever  touched  me.  You  know  the  way  he  talks  ? 
You  do  not  talk  so,  yet  you  can  sit  and  hear  him  with- 
out shuddering,  and  I  cannot.  My  soul  is  sick  when 
he  begins  with  it;  I  could  smite  him  in  the  mouth. 
And  all  that's  nothing.  I  was  at  the  trial  of  this  Jopp. 
You  were  not  there,  but  you  must  have  heard  him  often ; 
the  man's  notorious  for  it,  for  being — look  at  my  posi- 
tion! he's  my  father  and  this  is  how  I  have  to  speak  of 
him  —  notorious  for  being  a  brute  and  cruel  and  a  cow- 
ard. Lord  Glenalmond,  1  give  you  my  word,  when  I 
came  out  of  that  Court,  I  longed  to  die  —  the  shame  of 
it  was  beyond  my  strength :  but  I  —  I  —  "he  rose  from 
his  seat  and  began  to  pace  the  room  in  a  disorder. 
"  Well,  who  am  I  ?  A  boy,  who  have  never  been  tried, 
have  never  done  anything  except  this  twopenny  impo- 
tent folly  with  my  father.  But  I  tell  you,  my  lord,  and  I 
know  myself,  I  am  at  least  that  kind  of  a  man  —  or  that 
kind  of  a  boy,  if  you  prefer  it  —  that  I  could  die  in  tor- 
ments rather  than  that  anyone  should  suffer  as  that 
scoundrel  suffered.     Well,  and  what  have  I  done  ?    I 

48 


OPINION   OF  THE  BENCH 

see  it  now.  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself,  as  I  said  in 
the  beginning;  and  I  have  gone  back,  and  asked  my 
father's  pardon,  and  placed  myself  wholly  in  his  hands 
—  and  he  has  sent  me  to  Hermiston,"  with  a  wretched 
smile,  "for  life,  I  suppose  —  and  what  can  I  say  ?  he 
strikes  me  as  having  done  quite  right,  and  let  me  oft 
better  than  I  had  deserved." 

"  My  poor,  dear  boy !  "  observed  Glenalmond.  *'  My 
poor  dear  and,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  very  fool- 
ish boy !  You  are  only  discovering  where  you  are ;  to 
one  of  your  temperament,  or  of  mine,  a  painful  discov- 
ery. The  world  was  not  made  for  us;  it  was  made 
for  ten  hundred  millions  of  men,  all  different  from  each 
other  and  from  us ;  there's  no  royal  road  there,  we  just 
have  to  sclamber  and  tumble.  Don't  think  that  I  am  at 
all  disposed  to  be  surprised ;  don't  suppose  that  I  ever 
think  of  blaming  you;  indeed  I  rather  admire!  But 
there  fall  to  be  offered  one  or  two  observations  on  the 
case  which  occur  to  me  and  which  (if  you  will  listen  to 
them  dispassionately)  may  be  the  means  of  inducing 
you  to  view  the  matter  more  calmly.  First  of  all,  I  can- 
not acquit  you  of  a  good  deal  of  what  is  called  intoler- 
ance. You  seem  to  have  been  very  much  offended  be- 
cause your  father  talks  a  little  sculduddery  after  dinner, 
which  it  is  perfectly  licit  for  him  to  do,  and  which  (al- 
though I  am  not  very  fond  of  it  myself)  appears  to  be 
entirely  an  affair  of  taste.  Your  father,  I  scarcely  like  to 
remind  you,  since  it  is  so  trite  a  commonplace,  is  older 
than  yourself.  At  least,  he  is  major  and  sui  juris,  and 
may  please  himself  in  the  matter  of  his  conversation. 
And,  do  you  know,  I  wonder  if  he  might  not  have  as 
good  an  answer  against  you  and  me?    We  say  we 

49 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

sometimes  find  him  coarse,  but  I  suspect  he  might  re- 
tort that  he  finds  us  always  dull.  Perhaps  a  relevant 
exception." 

He  beamed  on  Archie,  but  no  smile  could  be 
elicited. 

*'  And  now,"  proceeded  the  Judge,  **  for  *  Archibald 
on  Capital  Punishment.'  This  is  a  very  plausible  aca- 
demic opinion;  of  course  1  do  not  and  1  cannot  hold  it; 
but  that's  not  to  say  that  many  able  and  excellent  per- 
sons have  not  done  so  in  the  past.  Possibly,  in  the 
past  also,  I  may  have  a  little  dipped  myself  in  the  same 
heresy.  My  third  client,  or  possibly  my  fourth,  was 
the  means  of  a  return  in  my  opinions.  1  never  saw  the 
man  I  more  believed  in;  1  would  have  put  my  hand  in 
the  fire,  I  would  have  gone  to  the  cross  for  him ;  and 
when  it  came  to  trial  he  was  gradually  pictured  before 
me,  by  undeniable  probation,  in  the  light  of  so  gross, 
so  cold-blooded,  and  so  black-hearted  a  villain,  that  I 
had  a  mind  to  have  cast  my  brief  upon  the  table.  I  was 
then  boiling  against  the  man  with  even  a  more  tropical 
temperature  than  1  had  been  boiling  for  him.  But  1  said 
to  myself:  'No,  you  have  taken  up  his  case;  and  be- 
cause you  have  changed  your  mind  it  must  not  be  suf- 
fered to  let  drop.  All  that  rich  tide  of  eloquence  that 
you  prepared  last  night  with  so  much  enthusiasm  is  out 
of  place,  and  yet  you  must  not  desert  him,  you  must 
say  something.'  So  1  said  something,  and  1  got  him  off. 
It  made  my  reputation.  But  an  experience  of  that  kind 
is  formative.  A  man  must  not  bring  his  passions  to  the 
bar —  or  to  the  bench." 

This  story  had  slightly  rekindled  Archie's  interest. 
**  I  could  never  deny,"  he  began  —  "I  mean  I  can  con- 

50 


OPINION   OF  THE  BENCH 

ceive  that  some  men  would  be  better  dead.  But  who 
are  we  to  know  all  the  springs  of  God's  unfortunate 
creatures  ?  Who  are  we  to  trust  ourselves  where  it 
seems  that  God  himself  must  think  twice  before  He 
treads,  and  to  do  it  with  delight  ?  Yes,  with  delight. 
Tigris  utaspera." 

"  Perhaps  not  a  pleasant  spectacle,"  said  Glenalmond. 
*'And  yet,  do  you  know,  I  think  somehow  a  great 
one." 

*'  I've  had  a  long  talk  with  him  to-night,"  said  Ar- 
chie. 

**  I  was  supposing  so,"  said  Glenalmond. 

"And  he  struck  me 1  cannot  deny  that  he  struck 

me  as  something  very  big,"  pursued  the  son.  *' Yes, 
he  is  big.  He  never  spoke  about  himself;  only  about 
me.    I  suppose  I  admired  him.    The  dreadful  part " 

"Suppose  we  did  not  talk  about  that,"  interrupted 
Glenalmond.  "  You  know  it  very  well,  it  cannot  in 
any  way  help  that  you  should  brood  upon  it,  and  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether  you  and  I  —  who  are  a  pair 
of  sentimentalists — are  quite  good  judges  of  plain  men." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Archie. 

'' F^/>  judges,  I  mean,"  replied  Glenalmond.  *'  Can 
we  be  just  to  them  ?  Do  we  not  ask  too  much  ?  There 
was  a  word  of  yours  just  now  that  impressed  me  a  little 
when  you  asked  me  who  we  were  to  know  all  the 
springs  of  God's  unfortunate  creatures.  You  applied 
that,  as  I  understood,  to  capital  cases  only.  But  does 
it  —  I  ask  myself —  does  it  not  apply  all  through  ?  Is  it 
any  less  difficult  to  judge  of  a  good  man  or  of  a  half- 
good  man,  than  of  the  worst  criminal  at  the  bar?  And 
may  not  each  have  relevant  excuses?" 

5» 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

"  Ah,  but  we  do  not  talk  of  punishing  the  good, 
cried  Archie. 

"No,  we  do  not  talk  of  it,"  said  Glenalmond.  "  Bu* 
I  think  we  do  it.     Your  father,  for  instance." 

*'  You  think  I  have  punished  him  ?"  cried  Archie. 

Lord  Glenalmond  bowed  his  head. 

"I  think  I  have,"  said  Archie.  "And  the  worst  is, 
I  think  he  feels  it!  How  much,  who  can  tell,  with  such 
a  being  ?    But  I  think  he  does." 

"And  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Glenalmond. 

"  Has  he  spoken  to  you,  then  ?"  cried  Archie. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  the  Judge. 

**  I  tell  you  honestly,"  said  Archie,  "  I  want  to  make 
it  up  to  him.  I  will  go,  I  have  already  pledged  myself 
to  go,  to  Hermiston.  That  was  to  him.  And  now  I 
pledge  myself  to  you,  in  the  sight  of  God,  that  I  will 
close  my  mouth  on  capital  punishment  and  all  other 
subjects  where  our  views  may  clash,  for — how  long 
shall  I  say?  when  shall  I  have  sense  enough?  —  ten 
years.     Is  that  well  ?  " 

"  It  is  well,"  said  my  lord. 

"As  far  as  it  goes,"  said  Archie.  "It  is  enough  as 
regards  myself,  it  is  to  lay  down  enough  of  my  conceit. 
But  as  regards  him,  whom  I  have  publicly  insulted  ? 
What  am  I  to  do  to  him  ?  How  do  you  pay  attentions 
to  a  —  an  Alp  like  that  ?" 

"Only  in  one  way,"  replied  Glenalmond.  "Only 
by  obedience,  punctual,  prompt,  and  scrupulous." 

"And  I  promise  that  he  shall  have  it,"  answered 
Archie.     "  I  offer  you  my  hand  in  pledge  of  it." 

"And  I  take  your  hand  as  a  solemnity,"  replied  the 
Judge.     "God  bless  you,  my  dear,  and  enable  you  to 

5* 


OPINION   OF  THE  BENCH 

keep  your  promise.  God  guide  you  in  the  true  way,  and 
spare  your  days,  and  preserve  to  you  your  honest  heart. " 
At  that,  he  kissed  the  young  man  upon  the  forehead 
in  a  gracious,  distant,  antiquated  way;  and  instantly 
launched,  with  a  marked  change  of  voice,  into  another 
subject.  *'  And  now,  let  us  replenish  the  tankard;  and 
I  believe,  if  you  will  try  my  Cheddar  again,  you  would 
find  you  had  a  better  appetite.  The  Court  has  spoken, 
and  the  case  is  dismissed." 

*'No,  there  is  one  thing  I  must  say,"  cried  Archie. 
"  I  must  say  it  in  justice  to  himself.  I  know  —  I  believe 
faithfully,  slavishly,  after  our  talk  —  he  will  never  ask 
me  anything  unjust.  I  am  proud  to  feel  it,  that  we 
have  that  much  in  common,  I  am  proud  to  say  it  to 
you." 

The  Judge,  with  shining  eyes,  raised  his  tankard. 
**  And  I  think  perhaps  that  we  might  permit  ourselves 
a  toast,"  said  he.  "  I  should  like  to  propose  the  health 
of  a  man  very  different  from  me  and  very  much  my  su- 
perior— a  man  from  whom  I  have  often  differed,  who 
has  often  (in  the  trivial  expression)  rubbed  me  the 
wrong  way,  but  whom  I  have  never  ceased  to  respect 
and,  I  may  add,  to  be  not  a  little  afraid  of.  Shall  I  givQ 
you  his  name  ?  " 

''The  Lord  Justice-Clerk,  Lord  Hermiston,"  said 
Archie,  almost  with  gaiety;  and  the  pair  drank  the 
toast  deeply. 

It  was  not  precisely  easy  to  re-establish,  after  these 
emotional  passages,  the  natural  flow  of  conversation. 
But  the  Judge  eked  out  what  was  wanting  with  kind 
looks,  produced  his  snuff-box  (which  was  very  rarely 
seen)  to  fill  in  a  pause,  and  at  last,  despairing  of  any  fur- 

53 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

ther  social  success,  was  upon  the  point  of  getting  down 
a  book  to  read  a  favourite  passage,  when  there  came  a 
rather  startling  summons  at  the  front  door,  and  Car- 
stairs  ushered  in  my  Lord  Glenkindie,  hot  from  a  mid- 
night supper.  I  am  not  aware  that  Glenkindie  was 
ever  a  beautiful  object,  being  short,  and  gross-bodied, 
and  with  an  expression  of  sensuality  comparable  to  a 
bear's.  At  that  moment,  coming  in  hissing  from  many 
potations,  with  a  flushed  countenance  and  blurred  eyes, 
he  was  strikingly  contrasted  with  the  tall,  pale,  kingly 
figure  of  Glenalmond.  A  rush  of  confused  though't 
came  over  Archie  —  of  shame  that  this  was  one  of  his 
father's  elect  friends;  of  pride,  that  at  the  least  of  il: 
Hermiston  could  carry  his  liquor;  and  last  of  all,  of  rage, 
that  he  should  have  here  under  his  eye  the  man  that: 
had  betrayed  him.  And  then  that  too  passed  away; 
and  he  sat  quiet,  biding  his  opportunity. 

The  tipsy  senator  plunged  at  once  into  an  explanation 
with  Glenalmond.  There  was  a  point  reserved  yester- 
day, he  had  been  able  to  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of 
it,  and  seeing  lights  in  the  house,  he  had  just  dropped 
in  for  a  glass  of  porter  —  and  at  this  point  he  became 
aware  of  the  third  person.  Archie  saw  the  cod's  mouth 
and  the  blunt  lips  of  Glenkindie  gape  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  recognition  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

''Who's  this.^"  said  he.  "What?  is  this  possibly 
you,  Don  Quickshot?  And  how  are  ye?  And  how's 
your  father  ?  And  what's  all  this  we  hear  of  you  ?  It 
seems  you're  a  most  extraordinary  leveller,  by  all  tales. 
No  king,  no  parliaments,  and  your  gorge  rises  at  the 
macers,  worthy  men!  Hoot,  too!  Dear,  dear  me! 
Your  father's  son  too!     Most  rideekulous! " 

54 


OPINION   OF  THE  BENCH 

Archie  was  on  his  feet,  flushing  a  little  at  the  reap- 
pearance of  his  unhappy  figure  of  speech,  but  perfectly 
self-possessed.  **My  lord  —  and  you,  Lord  Glenal- 
mond,  my  dear  friend,"  he  began,  **this  is  a  happy 
chance  for  me,  that  I  can  make  my  confession  and  offer 
my  apologies  to  two  of  you  at  once." 

**Ah,  but  I  don't  know  about  that.  Confession? 
It'll  be  judeecial,  my  young  friend,"  cried  the  jocular 
Glenkindie.  '*And  I'm  afraid  to  listen  to  ye.  Think 
if  ye  were  to  make  me  a  coanvert!  " 

"If  you  would  allow  me,  my  lord,"  returned  Archie, 
**what  I  have  to  say  is  very  serious  to  me;  and  be 
pleased  to  be  humorous  after  I  am  gone." 

**  Remember,  I'll  hear  nothing  against  the  macers!" 
put  in  the  incorrigible  Glenkindie. 

But  Archie  continued  as  though  he  had  not  spoken. 
'*  I  have  played,  both  yesterday  and  to-day,  a  part  for 
which  I  can  only  offer  the  excuse  of  youth.  I  was  so 
unwise  as  to  go  to  an  execution;  it  seems,  I  made  a 
scene  at  the  gallows ;  not  content  with  which,  I  spoke 
the  same  night  in  a  college  society  against  capital  pun- 
ishment. This  is  the  extent  of  what  I  have  done,  and 
in  case  you  hear  more  alleged  against  me,  I  protest  my 
innocence.  1  have  expressed  my  regret  already  to  my 
father,  who  is  so  good  as  to  pass  my  conduct  over  — 
in  a  degree,  and  upon  the  condition  that  I  am  to  leave 
my  law  studies."  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  V 

WINTER   ON   THE   MOORS 
I.       AT   HERMISTON 

The  road  to  Hermiston  runs  for  a  great  part  of  the 
way  up  the  valley  of  a  stream,  a  favourite  with  anglers 
and  with  midges,  full  of  falls  and  pools,  and  shaded  by 
willows  and  natural  woods  of  birch.  Here  and  there, 
but  at  great  distances,  a  byway  branches  off,  and  a 
gaunt  farmhouse  may  be  descried  above  in  a  fold  of 
the  hill;  but  the  more  part  of  the  time,  the  road  would 
be  quite  empty  of  passage  and  the  hills  of  habitation. 
Hermiston  parish  is  one  of  the  least  populous  in  Scot- 
land; and,  by  the  time  you  came  that  length,  you  would 
scarce  be  surprised  at  the  inimitable  smallness  of  the 
kirk,  a  dwarfish,  ancient  place  seated  for  fifty,  and 
standing  in  a  green  by  the  burn-side  among  two-score 
grave-stones.  The  manse  close  by,  although  no  more 
than  a  cottage,  is  surrounded  by  the  brightness  of  a 
flower-garden  and  the  straw  roofs  of  bees ;  and  the  whole 
colony,  kirk  and  manse,  garden  and  graveyard,  finds 
harbourage  in  a  grove  of  rowans,  and  is  all  the  year 
round  in  a  great  silence  broken  only  by  the  drone  of  the 
bees,  the  tinkle  of  the  burn,  and  the  bell  on  Sundays. 
A  mile  beyond  the  kirk  the  road  leaves  the  valley  by  a 

56 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

precipitous  ascent,  and  brings  you  a  little  after  to  the 
place  of  Hermiston,  where  it  comes  to  an  end  in  the 
back-yard  before  the  coach-house.  All  beyond  and 
about  is  the  great  field  of  the  hills;  the  plover,  the  cur- 
lew, and  the  lark  cry  there;  the  wind  blows  as  it  blows 
in  a  ship's  rigging,  hard  and  cold  and  pure;  and  the 
hill-tops  huddle  one  behind  another  like  a  herd  of  cattle 
into  the  sunset. 

The  house  was  sixty  years  old,  unsightly,  comfortable; 
a  farmyard  and  a  kitchen  garden  on  the  left,  with  a  fruit 
wall  where  little  hard  green  pears  came  to  their  maturity 
about  the  end  of  October. 

The  policy  (as  who  should  say  the  park)  was  of  some 
extent,  but  very  ill  reclaimed;  heather  and  moorfowl 
had  crossed  the  boundary  wall  and  spread  and  roosted 
within;  and  it  would  have  tasked  a  landscape  gardener 
to  say  where  policy  ended  and  unpolicied  nature  began. 
My  lord  had  been  led  by  the  influence  of  Mr.  Sheriff 
Scott  into  a  considerable  design  of  planting;  many  acres 
were  accordingly  set  out  with  fir,  and  the  little  feathery 
besoms  gave  a  false  scale  and  lent  a  strange  air  of  a 
toy-shop  to  the  moors.  A  great,  rooty  sweetness  of 
bogs  was  in  the  air,  and  at  all  seasons  an  infinite  melan- 
choly piping  of  hill  birds.  Standing  so  high  and  with 
so  little  shelter,  it  was  a  cold,  exposed  house,  splashed 
by  showers,  drenched  by  continuous  rains  that  made 
the  gutters  to  spout,  beaten  upon  and  buffeted  by  all 
the  winds  of  heaven ;  and  the  prospect  would  be  often 
black  with  tempest,  and  often  white  with  the  snows  of 
winter.  But  the  house  was  wind  and  weather  proof, 
the  hearths  were  kept  bright,  and  the  rooms  pleasant 
with  live  fires  of  peat;  and  Archie  might  sit  of  an  even- 

57 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

ing  and  hear  the  squalls  bugle  on  the  moorland,  and 
watch  the  fire  prosper  in  the  earthy  fuel,  and  the  smoke 
winding  up  the  chimney,  and  drink  deep  of  the  pleasures 
of  shelter. 

Solitary  as  the  place  was,  Archie  did  not  want  neigh- 
bours. Every  night,  if  he  chose,  he  might  go  down 
to  the  manse  and  share  a  "  brewst  "  of  toddy  with  the 
minister  —  a  hare-brained  ancient  gentleman,  long  and 
light  and  still  active,  though  his  knees  were  loosened 
with  age,  and  his  voice  broke  continually  in  childish 
trebles  —  and  his  lady  wife,  a  heavy,  comely  dame, 
without  a  word  to  say  for  herself  beyond  good  even 
and  good  day.  Harum-scarum,  clodpole  young  lairds 
of  the  neighbourhood  paid  him  the  compliment  of  a 
visit.  Young  Hay  of  Romanes  rode  down  to  call,  on 
his  crop-eared  pony;  young  Pringle  of  Drumanno  came 
up  on  his  bony  grey.  Hay  remained  on  the  hospitable 
field,  and  must  be  carried  to  bed ;  Pringle  got  somehow 
to  his  saddle  about  3  a.m.,  and  (as  Archie  stood  with 
the  lamp  on  the  upper  doorstep)  lurched,  uttered  a 
senseless  view  halloa,  and  vanished  out  of  the  small 
circle  of  illumination  like  a  wraith.  Yet  a  minute  or  two 
longer  the  clatter  of  his  break-neck  flight  was  audible, 
then  it  was  cut  off  by  the  intervening  steepness  of  the 
hill;  and  again,  a  great  while  after,  the  renewed  beating 
of  phantom  horse-hoofs,  far  in  the  valley  of  the  Hermis- 
ton,  showed  that  the  horse  at  least,  if  not  his  rider,  was 
still  on  the  homeward  way. 

There  was  a  Tuesday  club  at  the  ''Crosskeys"  in 
Crossmichael,  where  the  young  bloods  of  the  country- 
side congregated  and  drank  deep  on  a  percentage  of  the 
expense,  so  that  he  was  left  gainer  who  should  have 

58 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

drunk  the  most.  Archie  had  no  great  mind  to  this  diver- 
sion, but  he  took  it  like  a  duty  laid  upon  him,  went 
with  a  decent  regularity,  did  his  manfullest  with  the 
liquor,  held  up  his  head  in  the  local  jests,  and  got  home 
again  and  was  able  to  put  up  his  horse,  to  the  admiration 
of  Kirstie  and  the  lass  that  helped  her.  He  dined  at 
Driffel,  supped  at  Windielaws.  He  went  to  the  new 
year's  ball  at  Huntsfield  and  was  made  welcome,  and 
thereafter  rode  to  hounds  with  my  Lord  Muirfell,  upon 
whose  name,  as  that  of  a  legitimate  Lord  of  Parliament, 
in  a  work  so  full  of  Lords  of  Session,  my  pen  should 
pause  reverently.  Yet  the  same  fate  attended  him  here 
as  in  Edinburgh.  The  habit  of  solitude  tends  to  perpet- 
uate itself,  and  an  austerity  of  which  he  was  quite  un- 
conscious, and  a  pride  which  seemed  arrogance,  and 
perhaps  was  chiefly  shyness,  discouraged  and  offended 
his  new  companions.  Hay  did  not  return  more  than 
twice,  Pringle  never  at  all,  and  there  came  a  time  when 
Archie  even  desisted  from  the  Tuesday  Club,  and  be- 
came in  all  things  —  what  he  had  had  the  name  of  al- 
most from  the  first  —  the  Recluse  of  Hermiston.  High- 
nosed  Miss  Pringle  of  Drumanno  and  high-stepping  Miss 
Marshall  of  the  Mains  were  understood  to  have  had  a 
difference  of  opinion  about  him  the  day  after  the  ball  — 
he  was  none  the  wiser,  he  could  not  suppose  himself  to 
be  remarked  by  these  entrancing  ladies.  At  the  ball  it- 
self my  Lord  Muirfell's  daughter,  the  Lady  Flora,  spoke 
to  him  twice,  and  the  second  time  with  a  touch  of  ap- 
peal, so  that  her  colour  rose  and  her  voice  trembled  a 
little  in  his  ear,  like  a  passing  grace  in  music.  He 
stepped  back  with  a  heart  on  fire,  coldly  and  not  un- 
gracefully excused  himself,  and  a  little  after  watched  her 

59 


WEIR   OF   HERMISTON 

dancing  with  young  Drumanno  of  the  empty  laugh, 
and  was  harrowed  at  the  sight,  and  raged  to  himself 
that  this  was  a  world  in  which  it  was  given  to  Druman- 
no to  please,  and  to  himself  only  to  stand  aside  and 
envy.  He  seemed  excluded,  as  of  right,  from  the  favour 
of  such  society  —  seemed  to  extinguish  mirth  wherever 
he  came,  and  was  quick  to  feel  the  wound,  and  desist, 
and  retire  into  solitude.  If  he  had  but  understood  the 
figure  he  presented,  and  the  impression  he  made  on 
these  bright  eyes  and  tender  hearts ;  if  he  had  but  guessed 
that  the  Recluse  of  Hermiston,  young,  graceful,  well- 
spoken,  but  always  cold,  stirred  the  maidens  of  the 
county  with  the  charm  of  Byronism  when  Byronism 
was  new,  it  may  be  questioned  whether  his  destiny 
might  not  even  yet  have  been  modified.  It  may  be 
questioned,  and  I  think  it  should  be  doubted.  It  was 
in  his  horoscope  to  be  parsimonious  of  pain  to  himself, 
or  of  the  chance  of  pain,  even  to  the  avoidance  of  any 
opportunity  of  pleasure;  to  have  a  Roman  sense  of  duty, 
an  instinctive  aristocracy  of  manners  and  taste;  to  be 
the  son  of  Adam  Weir  and  Jean  Rutherford. 

II.    KIRSTIE 

KiRSTiE  was  now  over  fifty,  and  might  have  sat  to  a 
sculptor.  Long  of  limb  and  still  light  of  foot,  deep- 
breasted,  robust-loined,  her  golden  hair  not  yet  mingled 
with  any  trace  of  silver,  the  years  had  but  caressed  and 
embellished  her.  By  the  lines  of  a  rich  and  vigorous 
maternity,  she  seemed  destined  to  be  the  bride  of  heroes 
and  the  mother  of  their  children;  and  behold,  by  the 
iniquity  of  fate,  she  had  passed  through  her  youth  alone, 

60 


WINTER  ON  THE  MOORS 

and  drew  near  to  the  confines  of  age,  a  childless  wo- 
man. The  tender  ambitions  that  she  had  received  at 
birth  had  been,  by  time  and  disappointment,  diverted 
into  a  certain  barren  zeal  of  industry  and  fury  of  inter- 
ference. She  carried  her  thwarted  ardours  into  house- 
work, she  washed  floors  with  her  empty  heart.  If  she 
could  not  win  the  love  of  one  with  love,  she  must  dom- 
inate all  by  her  temper.  Hasty,  wordy,  and  wrathful, 
she  had  a  drawn  quarrel  with  most  of  her  neighbours, 
and  with  the  others  not  much  more  than  armed  neu- 
trality. The  grieve's  wife  had  been  ''sneisty;"  the 
sister  of  the  gardener,  who  kept  house  for  him,  had 
shown  herself  "  upsitten; "  and  she  wrote  to  Lord  Her- 
miston  about  once  a  year  demanding  the  discharge  of 
the  offenders,  and  justifying  the  demand  by  much 
wealth  of  detail.  For  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the 
quarrel  rested  with  the  wife  and  did  not  take  in  the  hus- 
band also  —  or  with  the  gardener's  sister,  and  did  not 
speedily  include  the  gardener  himself  As  the  upshot 
of  all  this  petty  quarrelling  and  intemperate  speech,  she 
was  practically  excluded  (like  a  lightkeeper  on  his 
tower)  from  the  comforts  of  human  association ;  except 
with  her  own  indoor  drudge,  who,  being  but  a  lassie 
and  entirely  at  her  mercy,  must  submit  to  the  shifty 
weather  of  "the  mistress's  "  moods  without  complaint, 
and  be  willing  to  take  buffets  or  caresses  according  to 
the  temper  of  the  hour.  To  Kirstie,  thus  situate  and  in 
the  Indian  summer  of  her  heart,  which  was  slow  to  sub- 
mit to  age,  the  gods  sent  this  equivocal  good  thing  of 
Archie's  presence.  She  had  known  him  in  the  cradle 
and  paddled  him  when  he  misbehaved;  and  yet,  as  she 
had  not  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  him  since  he  was  eleven 

6i 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

and  had  his  last  serious  illness,  the  tall,  slender,  refined, 
and  rather  melancholy  young  gentleman  of  twenty 
came  upon  her  with  the  shock  of  a  new  acquaintance. 
He  was  "Young  Hermiston,"  "the  laird  himsel';"  he 
had  an  air  of  distinctive  superiority,  a  cold  straight  glance 
of  his  black  eyes,  that  abashed  the  woman's  tantrums  in 
the  beginning,  and  therefore  the  possibility  of  any  quar- 
rel was  excluded.  He  was  new,  and  therefore  imme- 
diately aroused  her  curiosity;  he  was  reticent,  and  kept 
it  awake.  And  lastly  he  was  dark  and  she  fair,  and 
he  was  male  and  she  female,  the  everlasting  fountains 
of  interest. 

Her  feeling  partook  of  the  loyalty  of  a  clanswoman, 
the  hero-worship  of  a  maiden  aunt,  and  the  idolatry  due 
to  a  god.  No  matter  what  he  had  asked  of  her,  ridicu- 
lous or  tragic,  she  would  have  done  it  and  joyed  to  do 
it.  Her  passion,  for  it  was  nothing  less,  entirely  filled 
her.  It  was  a  rich  physical  pleasure  to  make  his  bed  or 
light  his  lamp  for  him  when  he  was  absent,  to  pull  off 
his  wet  boots  or  wait  on  him  at  dinner  when  he  re- 
turned. A  young  man  who  should  have  so  doted  on 
the  idea,  moral  and  physical,  of  any  woman,  might  be 
properly  described  as  being  in  love,  head  and  heels, 
and  would  have  behaved  himself  accordingly.  But 
Kirstie  —  though  her  heart  leaped  at  his  coming  foot- 
steps—  though,  when  he  patted  her  shoulder,  her  face 
brightened  for  the  day  —  had  not  a  hope  or  thought  be- 
yond the  present  moment  and  its  perpetuation  to  the 
end  of  time.  Till  the  end  of  time  she  would  have  had 
nothing  altered,  but  still  continue  delightedly  to  serve 
her  idol,  and  be  repaid  (say  twice  in  the  month)  with  a 
clap  on  the  shoulder. 

62 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

I  have  said  her  heart  leaped  —  it  is  the  accepted  phrase. 
But  rather,  when  she  was  alone  in  any  chamber  of  the 
house,  and  heard  his  foot  passing  on  the  corridors, 
something  in  her  bosom  rose  slowly  until  her  breath 
was  suspended,  and  as  slowly  fell  again  with  a  deep 
sigh,  when  the  steps  had  passed  and  she  was  disap- 
pointed of  her  eyes'  desire.  This  perpetual  hunger  and 
thirst  of  his  presence  kept  her  all  day  on  the  alert. 
When  he  went  forth  at  morning,  she  would  stand  and 
follow  him  with  admiring  looks.  As  it  grew  late  and 
drew  to  the  time  of  his  return,  she  would  steal  forth  to 
a  corner  of  the  policy  wall  and  be  seen  standing  there 
sometimes  by  the  hour  together,  gazing  with  shaded 
eyes,  waiting  the  exquisite  and  barren  pleasure  of  his 
view  a  mile  off  on  the  mountains.  When  at  night  she 
had  trimmed  and  gathered  the  fire,  turned  down  his 
bed,  and  laid  out  his  night-gear — when  there  was  no 
more  to  be  done  for  the  king's  pleasure,  but  to  remem- 
ber him  fervently  in  her  usually  very  tepid  prayers,  and 
go  to  bed  brooding  upon  his  perfections,  his  future 
career,  and  what  she  should  give  him  the  next  day  for 
dinner  —  there  still  remained  before  her  one  more  op- 
portunity; she  was  still  to  take  in  the  tray  and  say 
good-night.  Sometimes  Archie  would  glance  up  from 
his  book  with  a  pre-occupied  nod  and  a  perfunctory 
salutation  which  was  in  truth  a  dismissal;  sometimes — 
and  by  degrees  more  often — the  volume  would  be  laid 
aside,  he  would  meet  her  coming  with  a  look  of  relief; 
and  the  conversation  would  be  engaged,  last  out  the 
supper,  and  be  prolonged  till  the  small  hours  by  the 
waning  fire.  It  was  no  wonder  that  Archie  was  fond 
of  company  after  his  solitary  days;  and  Kirstie,  upon 

6^ 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

her  side,  exerted  all  the  arts  of  her  vigorous  nature  to  en- 
snare his  attention.  She  would  keep  back  some  piece 
of  news  during  dinner  to  be  fired  off  with  the  entrance 
of  the  supper  tray,  and  form  as  it  were  the  lever  de 
rideau  of  the  evening's  entertainment.  Once  he  had 
heard  her  tongue  wag,  she  made  sure  of  the  result. 
From  one  subject  to  another  she  moved  by  insidious 
transitions,  fearing  the  least  silence,  fearing  almost  to 
give  him  time  for  an  answer  lest  it  should  slip  into  a 
hint  of  separation.  Like  so  many  people  of  her  class, 
she  was  a  brave  narrator;  her  place  was  on  the  hearth- 
rug and  she  made  it  a  rostrum,  miming  her  stories  as 
she  told  them,  fitting  them  with  vital  detail,  spinning 
them  out  with  endless  **quo'  he's"  and  ''quo'  she's," 
her  voice  sinking  into  a  whisper  over  the  supernatural 
or  the  horrific ;  until  she  would  suddenly  spring  up  in 
affected  surprise,  and  pointing  to  the  clock,  "Mercy, 
Mr.  Archie! "  she  would  say,  "  Whatten  a  time  o'  night 
is  this  of  it!  God  forgive  me  for  a  daft  wife! "  So  it 
befell,  by  good  management,  that  she  was  not  only  the 
first  to  begin  these  nocturnal  conversations,  but  inva- 
riably the  first  to  break  them  off;  so  she  managed  to 
retire  and  not  to  be  dismissed. 


III.      A   BORDER   FAMILY 

Such  an  unequal  intimacy  has  never  been  un- 
common in  Scotland,  where  the  clan  spirit  survives; 
where  the  servant  tends  to  spend  her  life  in  the  same 
service,  a  helpmeet  at  first,  then  a  tyrant,  and  at  last 
a  pensioner;  where,  besides,  she  is  not  necessarily 
destitute  of  the  pride  of  birth,  but  is,   perhaps,  like 

64 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

Kirstie,  a  connection  of  her  master's,  and  at  least 
knows  the  legend  of  her  own  family,  and  may  count 
kinship  with  some  illustrious  dead.  For  that  is  the 
mark  of  the  Scot  of  all  classes:  that  he  stands  in  an 
attitude  towards  the  past  unthinkable  to  Englishmen, 
and  remembers  and  cherishes  the  memory  of  his  for- 
bears, good  or  bad ;  and  there  burns  alive  in  him  a  sense 
of  identity  with  the  dead  even  to  the  twentieth  gen- 
eration. No  more  characteristic  instance  could  be  found 
than  in  the  family  of  Kirstie  Elliott.  They  were  all,  and 
Kirstie  the  first  of  all,  ready  and  eager  to  pour  forth  the 
particulars  of  their  genealogy,  embellished  with  every 
detail  that  memory  had  handed  down  or  fancy  fabri- 
cated ;  and,  behold !  from  every  ramification  of  that  tree 
there  dangled  a  halter.  The  Elliotts  themselves  have 
had  a  chequered  history;  but  these  Elliotts  deduced, 
besides,  from  three  of  the  most  unfortunate  of  the  bor- 
der clans  —  the  Nicksons,  the  Ellwalds,  and  the  Crozers. 
One  ancestor  after  another  might  be  seen  appearing  a 
moment  out  of  the  rain  and  the  hill  mist  upon  his  fur- 
tive business,  speeding  home,  perhaps,  with  a  paltry 
booty  of  lame  horses  and  lean  kine,  or  squealing  and 
dealing  death  in  some  moorland  feud  of  the  ferrets  and 
the  wildcats.  One  after  another  closed  his  obscure  ad- 
ventures in  mid-air,  triced  up  to  the  arm  of  the  royal 
gibbet  or  the  Baron's  dule-tree.  For  the  rusty  blunder- 
buss of  Scots  criminal  justice,  which  usually  hurts  no- 
body but  jurymen,  became  a  weapon  of  precision  for 
the  Nicksons,  the  Ellwalds,  and  the  Crozers.  The  ex- 
hilaration of  their  exploits  seemed  to  haunt  the  memo- 
ries of  their  descendants  alone,  and  the  shame  to  be 
forgotten.     Pride  glowed  in  their  bosoms  to  publish 

65 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

their  relationship  to  "  Andrew  Ellwald  of  the  Laverock- 
stanes,  called  *  Unchancy  Dand,'  who  was  justifeed  wi' 
seeven  mair  of  the  same  name  at  Jeddart  in  the  days  of 
King  James  the  Sax."  In  all  this  tissue  of  crime  and 
misfortune,  the  Elliotts  of  Cauldstaneslap  had  one  boast 
which  must  appear  legitimate:  the  males  were  gallows- 
birds,  born  outlaws,  petty  thieves,  and  deadly  brawlers ; 
but  according  to  the  same  tradition,  the  females  were 
all  chaste  and  faithful.  The  power  of  ancestry  on  the 
character  is  not  limited  to  the  inheritance  of  cells.  If  I 
buy  ancestors  by  the  gross  from  the  benevolence  of  Lion 
King  at  Arms,  my  grandson  (if  he  is  Scottish)  will  feel 
a  quickening  emulation  of  their  deeds.  The  men  of  the 
Elliotts  were  proud,  lawless,  violent  as  of  right,  cherish- 
ing and  prolonging  a  tradition.  In  like  manner  with 
the  women.  And  the  woman,  essentially  passionate 
and  reckless,  who  crouched  on  the  rug,  in  the  shine 
of  the  peat  fire,  telling  these  tales,  had  cherished  through 
life  a  wild  integrity  of  virtue. 

Her  father  Gilbert  had  been  deeply  pious,  a  savage 
disciplinarian  in  the  antique  style,  and  withal  a  notori- 
ous smuggler.  "I  mind  when  I  was  a  bairn  getting 
mony  a  skelp  and  being  shoo'd  to  bed  like  pou'try," 
she  would  say.  "That  would  be  when  the  lads  and 
their  bit  kegs  were  on  the  road.  We've  had  the  rififraff 
of  two-three  counties  in  our  kitchen,  mony's  the  time, 
betwix'  the  twelve  and  the  three;  and  their  lanterns 
would  be  standing  in  the  forecourt,  ay,  a  score  o'  them 
at  once.  But  there  was  nae  ungodly  talk  permitted  at 
Cauldstaneslap;  my  faither  was  a  consistent  man  in 
walk  and  conversation;  just  let  slip  an  aith,  and  there 
was  the  door  to  ye  I    He  had  that  zeal  for  the  Lord,  it 

66 


WINTER  ON  THE  MOORS 

was  a  fair  wonder  to  hear  him  pray,  but  the  faimily  has 
aye  had  a  gift  that  way."  This  father  was  twice  mar- 
ried, once  to  a  dark  woman  of  the  old  Ellwald  stock, 
by  whom  he  had  Gilbert,  presently  of  Cauldstaneslap; 
and,  secondly,  to  the  mother  of  Kirstie.  "He  was  an 
auld  man  when  he  married  her,  a  fell  auld  man  wi'  a 
muckle  voice  —  you  could  hear  him  rowting  from  the 
top  o'  the  kye-stairs,"  she  said;  "but  for  her,  it  ap- 
pears, she  was  a  perfit  wonder.  It  was  gentle  blood 
she  had,  Mr.  Archie,  for  it  was  your  ain.  The  country- 
side gaed  gyte  about  her  and  her  gowden  hair.  Mines 
is  no  to  be  mentioned  wi'  it,  and  there's  few  weemen 
has  mair  hair  than  what  I  have,  or  yet  a  bonnier  colour. 
Often  would  I  tell  my  dear  Miss  Jeannie  —  that  was 
your  mother,  dear,  she  was  cruel  ta'en  up  about  her 
hair,  it  was  unco  tender,  ye  see — 'Houts,  Miss  Jean- 
nie,' I  would  say,  *just  fling  your  washes  and  your 
French  dentifrishes  in  the  back  o'  the  fire,  for  that's  the 
place  for  them;  and  awa'  down  to  a  burn-side,  and 
wash  yersel  in  cauld  hill  water,  and  dry  your  bonny 
hair  in  the  caller  wind  o'  the  muirs,  the  way  that  my 
mother  aye  washed  hers,  and  that  I  have  aye  made  it  a 
practice  to  have  washen  mines  —  just  you  do  what  I 
tell  ye,  my  dear,  and  ye'll  give  me  news  of  it!  Ye'll 
have  hair,  and  routh  of  hair,  a  pigtail  as  thick's  my  arm,' 
I  said,  *  and  the  bonniest  colour  like  the  clear  gowden 
guineas,  so  as  the  lads  in  kirk'll  no  can  keep  their  eyes 
off  it!*  Weel,  it  lasted  out  her  time,  puir  thing!  I 
cuttit  a  lock  of  it  upon  her  corp  that  was  lying  there 
sae  cauld.     I'll  show  it  ye  some  of  thir  days  if  ye're 

good.     But,  as  I  was  sayin',  my  mither " 

On  the  death  of  the  father  there  remained  golden- 
67 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

haired  Kirstie,  who  took  service  with  her  distant  kins- 
folk, the  Rutherfords,  and  black-a-vised  Gilbert,  twenty 
years  older,  who  farmed  the  Cauldstaneslap,  married, 
and  begot  four  sons  between  1773  and  1784,  and  a 
daughter,  like  a  postscript,  in  '97,  the  year  of  Camper- 
down  and  Cape  St.  Vincent.  It  seemed  it  was  a  tradi- 
tion of  the  family  to  wind  up  with  a  belated  girl.  In 
1804,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  Gilbert  met  an  end  that  might 
be  called  heroic.  He  was  due  home  from  market  any 
time  from  eight  at  night  till  five  in  the  morning,  and  in 
any  condition  from  the  quarrelsome  to  the  speechless, 
for  he  maintained  to  that  age  the  goodly  customs  of  the 
Scots  farmer.  It  was  known  on  this  occasion  that  he 
had  a  good  bit  of  money  to  bring  home;  the  word  had 
gone  round  loosely.  The  laird  had  shown  his  guineas, 
and  if  anybody  had  but  noticed  it,  there  was  an  ill- 
looking,  vagabond  crew,  the  scum  of  Edinburgh,  that 
drew  out  of  the  market  long  ere  it  was  dusk  and  took 
the  hill-road  by  Hermiston,  where  it  was  not  to  be  be- 
lieved that  they  had  lawful  business.  One  of  the  coun- 
try-side, one  Dickieson,  they  took  with  them  to  be  their 
guide,  and  dear  he  paid  for  it!  Of  a  sudden,  in  the  ford 
of  the  Broken  Dykes,  this  vermin  clan  fell  on  the  laird, 
six  to  one,  and  him  three  parts  asleep,  having  drunk 
hard.  But  it  is  ill  to  catch  an  Elliott.  For  awhile,  in 
the  night  and  the  black  water  that  was  deep  as  to  his 
saddle-girths,  he  wrought  with  his  staff  like  a  smith  at 
his  stithy,  and  great  was  the  sound  of  oaths  and  blows. 
With  that  the  ambuscade  was  burst,  and  he  rode  for 
home  with  a  pistol-ball  in  him,  three  knife-wounds,  the 
loss  of  his  front  teeth,  a  broken  rib  and  bridle,  and  a 
dying  horse.      That  was  a  race  with  death  that  the 

68 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

laird  rode!  In  the  mirk  night,  with  his  broken  bridle 
and  his  head  swimming,  he  dug  his  spurs  to  the  rowels 
in  the  horse's  side,  and  the  horse,  that  was  even  worse 
off  than  himself,  the  poor  creature!  screamed  out  loud 
like  a  person  as  he  went,  so  that  the  hills  echoed  with 
it,  and  the  folks  at  Cauldstaneslap  got  to  their  feet  about 
the  table  and  looked  at  each  other  with  white  faces. 
The  horse  fell  dead  at  the  yard  gate,  the  laird  won  the 
length  of  the  house  and  fell  there  on  the  threshold.  To 
the  son  that  raised  him  he  gave  the  bag  of  money. 
"  Hae,"  said  he.  All  the  way  up  the  thieves  had  seemed 
to  him  to  be  at  his  heels,  but  now  the  hallucination  left 
him  —  he  saw  them  again  in  the  place  of  the  ambus- 
cade—  and  the  thirst  of  vengeance  seized  on  his  dying 
mind.  Raising  himself  and  pointing  with  an  imperious 
finger  into  the  black  night  from  which  he  had  come, 
he  uttered  the  single  command,  "  Brocken  Dykes,"  and 
fainted.  He  had  never  been  loved,  but  he  had  been 
feared  in  honour.  At  that  sight,  at  that  word,  gasped 
out  at  them  from  a  toothless  and  bleeding  mouth,  the 
old  Elliott  spirit  awoke  with  a  shout  in  the  four  sons. 
"Wanting  the  hat,"  continues  my  author,  Kirstie, 
whom  I  but  haltingly  follow,  for  she  told  this  tale  like 
one  inspired,  **  wanting  guns,  for  there  wasnae  twa 
grains  o'  pouder  in  the  house,  wi'  nae  mair  weepons 
than  their  sticks  into  their  hands,  the  fower  o'  them 
took  the  road.  Only  Hob,  and  that  was  the  eldest, 
hunkered  at  the  door-sill  where  the  blood  had  rin,  fyled 
his  hand  wi'  it,  and  haddit  it  up  to  Heeven  in  the  way 
o'  the  auld  Border  aith.  '  Hell  shall  have  her  ain  again 
this  nicht! '  he  raired,  and  rode  forth  upon  his  errand." 
It  was  three  miles  to  Broken  Dykes,  down  hill,  and  a 

69 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

sore  road.  Kirstie  has  seen  men  from  Edinburgh  dis- 
mounting there  in  plain  day  to  lead  their  horses.  But 
the  four  brothers  rode  it  as  if  Auld  Hornie  were  behind 
and  Heaven  in  front.  Come  to  the  ford,  and  there  was 
Dickieson.  By  all  tales,  he  was  not  dead,  but  breathed 
and  reared  upon  his  elbow,  and  cried  out  to  them  for 
help.  It  was  at  a  graceless  face  that  he  asked  mercy. 
As  soon  as  Hob  saw,  by  the  glint  of  the  lantern,  the 
eyes  shining  and  the  whiteness  of  the  teeth  in  the  man's 
face,  **Damn  you!"  says  he;  **ye  hae  your  teeth,  hae 
ye?"  and  rode  his  horse  to  and  fro  upon  that  human 
remnant.  Beyond  that,  Dandie  must  dismount  with 
the  lantern  to  be  their  guide;  he  was  the  youngest  son, 
scarce  twenty  at  the  time.  "A'  nicht  long  they  gaed 
in  the  wet  heath  and  jennipers,  and  whaur  they  gaed 
they  neither  knew  nor  cared,  but  just  followed  the 
bluidstains  and  the  footprints  o'  their  faither's  murder- 
ers. And  a'  nicht  Dandie  had  his  nose  to  the  grund 
like  a  tyke,  and  the  ithers  followed  and  spak'  naething, 
neither  black  nor  white.  There  was  nae  noise  to  be 
heard,  but  just  the  sough  of  the  swalled  burns,  and 
Hob,  the  dour  yin,  risping  his  teeth  as  he  gaed."  With 
the  first  glint  of  the  morning  they  saw  they  were  on  the 
drove  road,  and  at  that  the  four  stopped  and  had  a  dram 
to  their  breakfasts,  for  they  knew  that  Dand  must  have 
guided  them  right,  and  the  rogues  could  be  but  little 
ahead,  hot  foot  for  Edinburgh  by  the  way  of  the  Pent- 
land  Hills.  By  eight  o'clock  they  had  word  of  them  — 
a  shepherd  had  seen  four  men  "  uncoly  mishandled"  go 
by  in  the  last  hour.  '* That's  yin  a  piece,"  says  Clem, 
and  swung  his  cudgel.  '*Five  o'  them!"  says  Hob. 
"God's  death,  but  the  faither  was  a  man!    And  him 

70 


WINTER  ON   THE   MOORS 

drunk!"  And  then  there  befell  them  what  my  author 
termed  "a  sair  misbegowk,"  for  they  were  overtaken 
by  a  posse  of  mounted  neighbours  come  to  aid  in  the 
pursuit.  Four  sour  faces  looked  on  the  reinforcement. 
"  The  deil's  broughten  you! "  said  Clem,  and  they  rode 
thenceforward  in  the  rear  of  the  party  with  hanging 
heads.  Before  ten  they  had  found  and  secured  the 
rogues,  and  by  three  of  the  afternoon,  as  they  rode  up 
the  Vennel  with  their  prisoners,  they  were  aware  of  a 
concourse  of  people  bearing  in  their  midst  something 
that  dripped.  "For  the  boady  of  the  saxt,"  pursued 
Kirstie,  "wi'  his  head  smashed  like  a  hazelnit,  had 
been  a'  that  nicht  in  the  chairge  o'  Hermiston  Water, 
and  it  dunting  it  on  the  stanes,  and  grunding  it  on  the 
shallows,  and  flinging  the  deid  thing  heels-ower-hurdie 
at  the  Fa's  o'  Spango ;  and  in  the  first  o'  the  day  Tweed 
had  got  a  hold  o'  him  and  carried  him  off  like  a  wind, 
for  it  was  uncoly  swalled  and  raced  wi'  him,  bobbing 
under  braesides,  and  was  long  playing  with  the  crea- 
ture in  the  drumlie  lynns  under  the  castle,  and  at  the 
hinder  end  of  all  cuist  him  up  on  the  starling  of  Cross- 
michael  brig.  Sae  there  they  were  a'  thegither  at  last 
(for  Dickieson  had  been  brought  in  on  a  cart  long  syne), 
and  folk  could  see  what  mainner  o'  man  my  brither  had 
been  that  had  held  his  head  again  sax  and  saved  the 
siller,  and  him  drunk!"  Thus  died  of  honourable  in- 
juries and  in  the  savour  of  fame  Gilbert  Elliott  of  the 
Cauldstaneslap;  but  his  sons  had  scarce  less  glory  out 
of  the  business.  Their  savage  haste,  the  skill  with 
which  Dand  had  found  and  followed  the  trail,  the  bar- 
barity to  the  wounded  Dickieson  (which  was  like  an 
open  secret  in  the  county)  and  the  doom  which  it  was 

7» 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

currently  supposed  they  had  intended  for  the  others, 
struck  and  stirred  popular  imagination.  Some  century 
earlier  the  last  of  the  minstrels  might  have  fashioned  the 
last  of  the  ballads  out  of  that  Homeric  fight  and  chase; 
but  the  spirit  was  dead,  or  had  been  reincarnated  al- 
ready in  Mr.  Sheriff  Scott,  and  the  degenerate  moorsmen 
must  be  content  to  tell  the  tale  in  prose  and  to  make  of 
the  "Four  Black  Brothers"  a  unit  after  the  fashion  of 
the  "Twelve  Apostles"  or  the  "Three  Musketeers." 

Robert,  Gilbert,  Clement,  and  Andrew  —  in  the 
proper  Border  diminutive,  Hob,  Gib,  Clem,  and  Dand 
Elliott  —  these  ballad  heroes  had  much  in  common;  in 
particular,  their  high  sense  of  the  family  and  the  family 
honour;  but  they  went  diverse  ways,  and  prospered 
and  failed  in  different  businesses.  According  to  Kirs- 
tie,  "  they  had  a'  bees  in  their  bonnets  but  Hob."  Hob 
the  laird  was,  indeed,  essentially  a  decent  man.  An 
elder  of  the  Kirk,  nobody  had  heard  an  oath  upon  his 
lips,  save,  perhaps,  thrice  or  so  at  the  sheep-washing, 
since  the  chase  of  his  father's  murderers.  The  figure 
he  had  shown  on  that  eventful  night  disappeared  as  if 
swallowed  by  a  trap.  He  who  had  ecstatically  dipped 
his  hand  in  the  red  blood,  he  who  had  ridden  down 
Dickieson,  became,  from  that  moment  on,  a  stiff  and 
rather  graceless  model  of  the  rustic  proprieties ;  cannily 
profiting  by  the  high  war  prices,  and  yearly  stowing 
away  a  little  nest-egg  in  the  bank  against  calamity;  ap- 
proved of  and  sometimes  consulted  by  the  greater  lairds 
for  the  massive  and  placid  sense  of  what  he  said,  when 
he  could  be  induced  to  say  anything;  and  particularly 
valued  by  the  minister,  Mr.  Torrance,  as  a  righthand 
man  in  the  parish,  and  a  model  to  parents.     The  trans- 

72 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

figuration  had  been  for  the  moment  only;  some  Bar- 
barossa,  some  old  Adam  of  our  ancestors,  sleeps  in  all 
of  us  till  the  fit  circumstance  shall  call  it  into  action ; 
and  for  as  sober  as  he  now  seemed,  Hob  had  given  once 
for  all  the  measure  of  the  devil  that  haunted  him.  He 
was  married,  and,  by  reason  of  the  effulgence  of  that 
legendary  night,  was  adored  by  his  wife.  He  had  a 
mob  of  little  lusty,  barefoot  children  who  marched  in  a 
caravan  the  long  miles  to  school,  the  stages  of  whose 
pilgrimage  were  marked  by  acts  of  spoliation  and  mis- 
chief, and  who  were  qualified  in  the  country-side  as 
**fair  pests."  But  in  the  house,  if  "  faither  was  in," 
they  were  quiet  as  mice.  In  short.  Hob  moved  through 
life  in  a  great  peace  —  the  reward  of  anyone  who  shall 
have  killed  his  man,  with  any  formidable  and  figurative 
circumstance,  in  the  midst  of  a  country  gagged  and 
swaddled  with  civilisation. 

It  was  a  current  remark  that  the  Elliotts  were  "  guid 
and  bad,  like  sanguishes";  and  certainly  there  was  a 
curious  distinction,  the  men  of  business  coming  alter- 
nately with  the  dreamers.  The  second  brother,  Gib, 
was  a  weaver  by  trade,  had  gone  out  early  into  the 
world  to  Edinburgh,  and  come  home  again  with  his 
wings  singed.  There  was  an  exaltation  in  his  nature 
which  had  led  him  to  embrace  with  enthusiasm  the 
principles  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  had  ended  by 
bringing  him  under  the  hawse  of  my  Lord  Hermiston 
in  that  furious  onslaught  of  his  upon  the  Liberals,  which 
sent  Muir  and  Palmer  into  exile  and  dashed  the  party 
into  chaff.  It  was  whispered  that  my  lord,  in  his  great 
scorn  for  the  movement,  and  prevailed  upon  a  little  by 
a  sense  of  neighbourliness,  had  given  Gib  a  hint.    Meet- 

73 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

ing  him  one  day  in  the  Potterrow,  my  lord  had  stopped 
in  front  of  him.  "Gib,  ye  eediot,"  he  had  said, 
'*  what's  this  I  hear  of  you  ?  Poalitics,  poalitics,  poali- 
tics,  weaver's  poalitics,  is  the  way  of  it,  I  hear.  If  ye 
arenae  a'  thegether  dozened  with  eediocy,  ye'll  gang 
your  ways  back  to  Cauldstaneslap,  and  ca*  your  loom, 
and  ca'  your  loom,  man !  "  And  Gilbert  had  taken  him 
at  the  word  and  returned,  with  an  expedition  almost  to 
be  called  flight,  to  the  house  of  his  father.  The  clearest 
of  his  inheritance  was  that  family  gift  of  prayer  of  which 
Kirstie  had  boasted;  and  the  baffled  politician  now 
turned  his  attention  to  religious  matters  —  or,  as  others 
said,  to  heresy  and  schism.  Every  Sunday  morning  he 
was  in  Crossmichael,  where  he  had  gathered  together, 
one  by  one,  a  sect  of  about  a  dozen  persons,  who  called 
themselves  "God's  Remnant  of  the  True  Faithful,"  or, 
for  short,  "God's  Remnant."  To  the  profane,  they  were 
known  as  "  Gib's  Deils."  Baillie  Sweedie,  a  noted  hu- 
morist in  the  town,  vowed  that  the  proceedings  always 
opened  to  the  tune  of  "The  Deil  Fly  Away  with  the 
Exciseman,"  and  that  the  sacrament  was  dispensed  in 
the  form  of  hot  whisky  toddy;  both  wicked  hits  at 
the  evangelist,  who  had  been  suspected  of  smuggling 
in  his  youth,  and  had  been  overtaken  (as  the  phrase 
went)  on  the  streets  of  Crossmichael  one  Fair  day.  It 
was  known  that  every  Sunday  they  prayed  for  a  bless- 
ing on  the  arms  of  Bonaparte.  For  this,  "  God's  Rem- 
nant," as  they  were  "skailing"  from  the  cottage  that 
did  duty  for  a  temple,  had  been  repeatedly  stoned  by  the 
bairns,  and  Gib  himself  hooted  by  a  squadron  of  Border 
volunteers  in  which  his  own  brother,  Dand,  rode  in  a 
uniform  and  with  a  drawn  sword.     The  "  Remnant" 

74 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

were  believed,  besides,  to  be  *'  antinomian  in  principle," 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  a  serious  charge,  but 
the  way  public  opinion  then  blew  it  was  quite  swal- 
lowed up  and  forgotten  in  the  scandal  about  Bonaparte. 
For  the  rest,  Gilbert  had  set  up  his  loom  in  an  outhouse 
at  Cauldstaneslap,  where  he  laboured  assiduously  six 
days  of  the  week.  His  brothers,  appalled  by  his  polit- 
ical opinions  and  willing  to  avoid  dissension  in  the 
household,  spoke  but  little  to  him ;  he  less  to  them,  re- 
maining absorbed  in  the  study  of  the  Bible  and  almost 
constant  prayer.  The  gaunt  weaver  was  dry-nurse  at 
Cauldstaneslap,  and  the  bairns  loved  him  dearly.  Ex- 
cept when  he  was  carrying  an  infant  in  his  arms,  he 
was  rarely  seen  to  smile  —  as,  indeed,  there  were  few 
smilers  in  that  family.  When  his  sister-in-law  rallied 
him,  and  proposed  that  he  should  get  a  wife  and  bairns 
of  his  own,  since  he  was  so  fond  of  them,  "  I  have  no 
clearness  of  mind  upon  that  point,"  he  would  reply.  If 
nobody  called  him  in  to  dinner,  he  stayed  out.  Mrs. 
Hob,  a  hard,  unsympathetic  woman,  once  tried  the  ex- 
periment. He  went  without  food  all  day,  but  at  dusk, 
as  the  light  began  to  fail  him,  he  came  into  the  house  of 
his  own  accord,  looking  puzzled.  "I've  had  a  great 
gale  of  prayer  upon  my  speerit,"  said  he.  *M  canna 
mind  sae  muckle's  what  I  had  for  denner."  The  creed 
of  God's  Remnant  was  justified  in  the  life  of  its  founder. 
"And  yet  I  dinna  ken,"  said  Kirstie.  "He's  maybe 
no  more  stockfish  than  his  neeghbours!  He  rode  wi' 
the  rest  o'  them,  and  had  a  good  stamach  to  the  work, 
by  a'  that  I  hear!  God's  Remnant!  The  deil's  clavers! 
There  wasna  muckle  Christianity  in  the  way  Hob  guided 
Johnny  Dickieson,  at  the  least  of  it;  but  Guid  kens!   Is 

75 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

he  a  Christian  even  ?  He  might  be  a  Mahommedan  or 
a  Deevil  or  a  Fireworshipper,  for  what  I  ken." 

The  third  brother  had  his  name  on  a  door-plate,  no 
less,  in  the  city  of  Glasgow.  "  Mr.  Clement  Elliott,"  as 
long  as  your  arm.  In  his  case,  that  spirit  of  innovation 
which  had  shown  itself  timidly  in  the  case  of  Hob  by  the 
admission  of  new  manures,  and  which  had  run  to  waste 
with  Gilbert  in  subversive  politics  and  heretical  religions, 
bore  useful  fruit  in  many  ingenious  mechanical  improve- 
ments. In  boyhood,  from  his  addiction  to  strange  de- 
vices of  sticks  and  string,  he  had  been  counted  the  most 
eccentric  of  the  family.  But  that  was  all  by  now,  and 
he  was  a  partner  of  his  firm,  and  looked  to  die  a  baillie. 
He  too  had  married,  and  was  rearing  a  plentiful  family 
in  the  smoke  and  din  of  Glasgow;  he  was  wealthy,  and 
could  have  bought  out  his  brother,  the  cock-laird,  six 
times  over,  it  was  whispered;  and  when  he  slipped 
away  to  Cauldstaneslap  for  a  well-earned  holiday,  which 
he  did  as  often  as  he  was  able,  he  astonished  the  neigh- 
bours with  his  broadcloth,  his  beaver  hat,  and  the  am- 
ple plies  of  his  neck-cloth.  Though  an  eminently  solid 
man  at  bottom,  after  the  pattern  of  Hob,  he  had  con- 
tracted a  certain  Glasgow  briskness  and  aplomb  which 
set  him  off.  All  the  other  Elliotts  were  as  lean  as  a 
rake,  but  Clement  was  laying  on  fat,  and  he  panted 
sorely  when  he  must  get  into  his  boots.  Dand  said, 
chuckling:  "Ay,  Clem  has  the  elements  of  a  corpora- 
tion." "A  provost  and  corporation,"  returned  Clem. 
And  his  readiness  was  much  admired. 

The  fourth  brother,  Dand,  was  a  shepherd  to  his 
trade,  and  by  starts,  when  he  could  bring  his  mind  to 
it,  excelled  in  the  business.     Nobody  could  train  a  dog 

76 


WINTER  ON  THE  MOORS 

like  Dandie;  nobody,  through  the  peril  of  great  storms 
in  the  winter  time,  could  do  more  gallantly.  But  if  his 
dexterity  were  exquisite,  his  diligence  was  but  fitful; 
and  he  served  his  brother  for  bed  and  board,  and  a 
trifle  of  pocket-money  when  he  asked  for  it.  He  loved 
money  well  enough,  knew  very  well  how  to  spend  it, 
and  could  make  a  shrewd  bargain  when  he  liked.  But 
he  preferred  a  vague  knowledge  that  he  was  well  to 
windward  to  any  counted  coins  in  the  pocket;  he  felt 
himself  richer  so.  Hob  would  expostulate:  'M'm  an 
amature  herd,"  Dand  would  reply:  "I'll  keep  your 
sheep  to  you  when  I'm  so  minded,  but  I'll  keep  my 
liberty  too.  Thir's  no -man  can  coandescend  on  what 
I'm  worth."  Clem  would  expound  to  him  the  miracu- 
lous results  of  compound  interest,  and  recommend  in- 
vestments. '*Ay,  man?"  Dand  would  say,  **  and  do 
you  think,  if  I  took  Hob's  siller,  that  I  wouldna  drink  it 
or  wear  it  on  the  lassies?  And,  anyway,  my  kingdom 
is  no  of  this  world.  Either  I'm  a  poet  or  else  I'm  noth- 
ing." Clem  would  remind  him  of  old  age.  *M'll  die 
young,  like  Robbie  Burns,"  he  would  say  stoutly.  No 
question  but  he  had  a  certain  accomplishment  in  minor 
verse.     His  "  Hermiston  Burn,"  with  its  pretty  refrain  — 

I  love  to  gang  thinking  whaur  ye  gang  linking, 
Hermiston  burn,  in  the  howe; 

his  **  Auld,  auld  Elliotts,  clay-cauld  Elliotts,  dour,  bauld 
Elliotts  of  auld,"  and  his  really  fascinating  piece  about  the 
Praying  Weaver's  Stone,  had  gained  him  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood the  reputation,  still  possible  in  Scotland,  of  a  lo- 
cal bard;  and,  though  not  printed  himself,  he  was  recog- 
nized by  others  who  were  and  who  had  become  famous. 

77 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

Walter  Scott  owed  to  Dandie  the  text  of  the  "  Raid  of 
Wearie  "  in  the  Minstrelsy  and  made  him  welcome  at  his 
house,  and  appreciated  his  talents,  such  as  they  were,  with 
all  his  usual  generosity.  The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  his 
sworn  crony;  they  would  meet,  drink  to  excess,  roar 
out  their  lyrics  in  each  other's  faces,  and  quarrel  and 
make  it  up  again  till  bedtime.  And  besides  these  recog- 
nitions, almost  to  be  called  official,  Dandie  was  made 
welcome  for  the  sake  of  his  gift  through  the  farmhouses 
of  several  contiguous  dales,  and  was  thus  exposed  to  mani- 
fold temptations  which  he  rather  sought  than  fled.  He  had 
figured  on  the  stool  of  repentance,  for  once  fulfilling  to 
the  letter  the  tradition  of  his  hero  and  model.  His 
humorous  verses  to  Mr.  Torrance  on  that  occasion  — 
"  Kenspeckle  here  my  lane  I  stand  "  —  unfortunately  too 
indelicate  for  further  citation,  ran  through  the  country 
like  a  fiery  cross ;  they  were  recited,  quoted,  paraphrased 
and  laughed  over  as  far  away  as  Dumfries  on  the  one 
hand  and  Dunbar  on  the  other. 

These  four  brothers  were  united  by  a  close  bond,  the 
bond  of  that  mutual  admiration  —  or  rather  mutual  hero- 
worship —  which  is  so  strong  among  the  members  of 
secluded  families  who  have  much  ability  and  little  cul- 
ture. Even  the  extremes  admired  each  other.  Hob, 
who  had  as  much  poetry  as  the  tongs,  professed  to 
find  pleasure  in  Dand's  verses;  Clem,  who  had  no  more 
religion  than  Claverhouse,  nourished  a  heartfelt,  at  least 
an  open-mouthed,  admiration  of  Gib's  prayers;  and 
Dandie  followed  with  relish  the  rise  of  Clem's  fortunes. 
Indulgence  followed  hard  on  the  heels  of  admiration. 
The  laird,  Clem  and  Dand,  who  were  Tories  and  patri- 
ots of  the  hottest  quality,  excused  to  themselves,  with 

78 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

a  certain  bashfulness,  the  radical  and  revolutionary  her- 
esies of  Gib.  By  another  division  of  the  family,  the 
laird,  Clem,  and  Gib,  who  were  men  exactly  virtuous, 
swallowed  the  dose  of  Dand's  irregularities  as  a  kind 
of  clog  or  drawback  in  the  mysterious  providence  of 
God  affixed  to  bards,  and  distinctly  probative  of  poetical 
genius.  To  appreciate  the  simplicity  of  their  mutual 
admiration,  it  was  necessary  to  hear  Clem,  arrived  upon 
one  of  his  visits,  and  dealing  in  a  spirit  of  continuous 
irony  with  the  affairs  and  personalities  of  that  great  city 
of  Glasgow  where  he  lived  and  transacted  business. 
The  various  personages,  ministers  of  the  church,  mu- 
nicipal officers,  mercantile  big-wigs,  whom  he  had  oc- 
casion to  introduce,  were  all  alike  denigrated,  all  served 
but  as  reflectors  to  cast  back  a  flattering  side-light  on 
the  house  of  Cauldstaneslap.  The  Provost,  for  whom 
Clem  by  exception  entertained  a  measure  of  respect,  he 
would  liken  to  Hob.  **He  minds  me  o'  the  laird 
there,"  he  would  say.  "  He  has  some  of  Hob's  grand, 
whun-stane  sense,  and  the  same  way  with  him  of  steik- 
ing  his  mouth  when  he's  no  very  pleased."  And  Hob, 
all  unconscious,  would  draw  down  his  upper  lip  and 
produce,  as  if  for  comparison,  the  formidable  grimace 
referred  to.  The  unsatisfactory  incumbent  of  St. 
Enoch's  Kirk  was  thus  briefly  dismissed:  *'If  he  had 
but  twa  fingers  o'  Gib's  he  would  waken  them  up." 
And  Gib,  honest  man !  would  look  down  and  secretly 
smile.  Clem  was  a  spy  whom  they  had  sent  out  into 
the  world  of  men.  He  had  come  back  with  the  good 
news  that  there  was  nobody  to  compare  with  the  Four 
Black  Brothers,  no  position  that  they  would  not  adorn, 
no  official  that  it  would  not  be  well  they  should  replace, 

79 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

no  interest  of  mankind,  secular  or  spiritual,  which 
would  not  immediately  bloom  under  their  supervision. 
The  excuse  of  their  folly  is  in  two  words:  scarce  the 
breadth  of  a  hair  divided  them  from  the  peasantry. 
The  measure  of  their  sense  is  this:  that  these  symposia 
of  rustic  vanity  were  kept  entirely  within  the  family, 
like  some  secret  ancestral  practice.  To  the  world  their 
serious  faces  were  never  deformed  by  the  suspicion  of 
any  simper  of  self-contentment.  Yet  it  was  known. 
"They  hae  a  guid  pride  o'  themsel's!"  was  the  word 
in  the  country-side. 

Lastly,  in  a  Border  story,  there  should  be  added  their 
'* two-names."  Hob  was  The  Laird.  "Roy  ne  puis, 
prince  ne  daigne  " ;  he  was  the  laird  of  Cauldstaneslap — 
say  fifty  acres  —  ipsissimus.  Clement  was  Mr.  Elliott, 
as  upon  his  door-plate,  the  earlier  Dafty  having  been 
discarded  as  no  longer  applicable,  and  indeed  only  a  re- 
minder of  misjudgment  and  the  imbecility  of  the  public; 
and  the  youngest,  in  honour  of  his  perpetual  wander- 
ings, was  known  by  the  sobriquet  of  Randy  Dand. 

It  will  be  understood  that  not  all  this  information  was 
communicated  by  the  aunt,  who  had  too  much  of  the 
family  failing  herself  to  appreciate  it  thoroughly  in 
others.  But  as  time  went  on,  Archie  began  to  observe 
an  omission  in  the  family  chronicle. 

**Is  there  not  a  girl  too?"  he  asked. 

"Ay.  Kirstie.  She  was  named  from  me,  or  my 
grandmother  at  least  —  it's  the  same  thing,"  returned 
the  aunt,  and  went  on  again  about  Dand,  whom  she 
secretly  preferred  by  reason  of  his  gallantries. 

"But  what  is  your  niece  like?"  said  Archie  at  the 
next  opportunity. 

80 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

'*Her?  As  black's  your  hat!  But  I  dinna  suppose 
she  would  maybe  be  what  you  would  ca'  ill-looked  a' 
thegither.  Na,  she's  a  kind  of  a  handsome  jaud  —  a 
kind  o'  gipsy,"  said  the  aunt,  who  had  two  sets  of 
scales  for  men  and  women  —  or  perhaps  it  would  be 
more  fair  to  say  that  she  had  three,  and  the  third  and 
the  most  loaded  was  for  girls. 

"How  comes  it  that  I  never  see  her  in  church?" 
said  Archie. 

"'Deed,  and  I  believe  she's  in  Glesgie  with  Clem 
and  his  wife.  A  heap  good  she's  like  to  get  of  it!  I 
dinna  say  for  men  folk,  but  where  weemen  folk  are 
born,  there  let  them  bide.  Glory  to  God,  I  was  never 
far'er  from  here  than  Crossmichael." 

In  the  meantime  it  began  to  strike  Archie  as  strange, 
that  while  she  thus  sang  the  praises  of  her  kinsfolk,  and 
manifestly  relished  their  virtues  and  (I  may  say)  their 
vices  like  a  thing  creditable  to  herself,  there  should  ap- 
pear not  the  least  sign  of  cordiality  between  the  house 
of  Hermiston  and  that  of  Cauldstaneslap.  Going  to 
church  of  a  Sunday,  as  the  lady  housekeeper  stepped 
with  her  skirts  kilted,  three  tucks  of  her  white  petticoat 
showing  below,  and  her  best  India  shawl  upon  her 
back  (if  the  day  were  fine)  in  a  pattern  of  radiant  dyes, 
she  would  sometimes  overtake  her  relatives  preceding 
her  more  leisurely  in  the  same  direction.  Gib  of  course 
was  absent:  by  skriegh  of  day  he  had  been  gone  to 
Crossmichael  and  his  fellow  heretics;  but  the  rest  of  the 
family  would  be  seen  marching  in  open  order:  Hob  and 
Dand,  stiff-necked,  straight-backed  six-footers,  with  se- 
vere dark  faces,  and  their  plaids  about  their  shoulders; 
the  convoy  of  children  scattering  (in  a  state  of  high  pol- 

8i 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

ish)  on  the  wayside,  and  every  now  and  again  collected 
by  the  shrill  summons  of  the  mother;  and  the  mother 
herself,  by  a  suggestive  circumstance  which  might  have 
afforded  matter  of  thought  to  a  more  experienced  ob- 
server than  Archie,  wrapped  in  a  shawl  nearly  identical 
with  Kirstie's  but  a  thought  more  gaudy  and  conspicu- 
ously newer.  At  the  sight,  Kirstie  grew  more  tall  — 
Kirstie  showed  her  classical  profile,  nose  in  air  and  nos- 
tril spread,  the  pure  blood  came  in  her  cheek  evenly  in 
a  delicate  living  pink. 

"A  braw  day  to  ye,  Mistress  Elliott,"  said  she,  and 
hostility  and  gentility  were  nicely  mingled  in  her  tones. 
**A  fine  day,  mem,"  the  laird's  wife  would  reply  with 
a  miraculous  curtsey,  spreading  the  while  her  plumage 
—  setting  off,  in  other  words,  and  with  arts  unknown 
to  the  mere  man,  the  pattern  of  her  India  shawl.  Be- 
hind her,  the  whole  Cauldstaneslap  contingent  marched 
in  closer  order,  and  with  an  indescribable  air  of  being 
in  the  presence  of  the  foe;  and  while  Dandie  saluted 
his  aunt  with  a  certain  familiarity  as  of  one  who  was 
well  in  court,  Hob  marched  on  in  awful  immobility. 
There  appeared  upon  the  face  of  this  attitude  in  the 
family  the  consequences  of  some  dreadful  feud.  Pre- 
sumably the  two  women  had  been  principals  in  the 
original  encounter,  and  the  laird  had  probably  been 
drawn  into  the  quarrel  by  the  ears,  too  late  to  be  in- 
cluded in  the  present  skin-deep  reconciliation. 

*' Kirstie,"  said  Archie  one  day,  "what  is  this  you 
have  against  your  family  ?  " 

"  I  dinna  complean,"  said  Kirstie,  with  a  flush.  "  I 
say  naething." 

83 


WINTER  ON   THE  MOORS 

*'  I  see  you  do  not  —  not  even  good  day  to  your  own 
nephew,"  said  he. 

''I  hae  naething  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said  she.  '*I 
can  say  the  Lord's  prayer  with  a  good  grace.  If  Hob 
was  ill,  or  in  preeson  or  poverty,  I  would  see  to  him 
blithely.  But  for  curtchying  and  complimenting  and 
colloguing,  thank  ye  kindly!" 

Archie  had  a  bit  of  a  smile :  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
''  I  think  you  and  Mrs.  Robert  are  not  very  good  friends," 
says  he  slyly,  "  when  you  have  your  India  shawls  on  ?" 

She  looked  upon  him  in  silence,  with  a  sparkling  eye 
but  an  indecipherable  expression ;  and  that  'was  all  that 
Archie  was  ever  destined  to  learn  of  the  battle  of  the 
India  shawls. 

"Do  none  of  them  ever  come  here  to  see  you?"  he 
inquired. 

**Mr.  Archie,"  said  she,  **I  hope  that  I  ken  my 
place  better.  It  would  be  a  queer  thing,  I  think,  if  I 
was  to  clamjamfry  up  your  faither's  house  .  .  .  that  I 
should  say  it!  —  wi'  a  dirty,  black-a-vised  clan,  no  ane 
o'  them  it  was  worth  while  to  mar  soap  upon  but  just 
mysel' !  Na,  they're  all  damnifeed  wi'  the  black  EUwalds. 
I  have  nae  patience  wi'  black  folk."  Then,  with  a  sud- 
den consciousness  of  the  case  of  Archie,  '*No  that  it 
maitters  for  men  sae  muckle,"  she  made  haste  to  add, 
'*but  there's  naebody  can  deny  that  it's  unwomanly. 
Long  hair  is  the  ornament  o'  woman  ony  way;  we've 
good  warrandise  for  that  —  it's  in  the  Bible  — and  wha 
can  doubt  that  the  Apostle  had  some  gowden-haired 
lassie  in  his  mind  —  Apostle  and  all,  for  what  was  he 
but  just  a  man  like  yersel'  ?" 

83 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  LEAF  FROM   CHRISTINA'S  PSALM-BOOK 

Archie  was  sedulous  at  church.  Sunday  after  Sun- 
day he  sat  down  and  stood  up  with  that  small  com- 
pany, heard  the  voice  of  Mr.  Torrance  leaping  like  an 
ill-played  cFarionet  from  key  to  key,  and  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  study  his  moth-eaten  gown  and  the  black 
thread  mittens  that  he  joined  together  in  prayer,  and 
lifted  up  with  a  reverent  solemnity  in  the  act  of  bene- 
diction. Hermiston  pew  was  a  little  square  box,  dwarf- 
ish in  proportion  with  the  kirk  itself,  and  enclosing  a 
table  not  much  bigger  than  a  footstool.  There  sat  Ar- 
chie an  apparent  prince,  the  only  undeniable  gentleman 
and  the  only  great  heritor  in  the  parish,  taking  his  ease 
in  the  only  pew,  for  no  other  in  the  kirk  had  doors. 
Thence  he  might  command  an  undisturbed  view  of  that 
congregation  of  solid  plaided  men,  strapping  wives  and 
daughters,  oppressed  children,  and  uneasy  sheep-dogs. 
It  was  strange  how  Archie  missed  the  look  of  race;  ex- 
cept the  dogs,  with  their  refined  foxy  faces  and  inimita- 
bly curling  tails,  there  was  no  one  present  with  the 
least  claim  to  gentility.  The  Cauldstaneslap  party  was 
scarcely  an  exception;  Dandie  perhaps,  as  he  amused 
himself  making  verses  through  the  interminable  burden 
of  the  service,  stood  out  a  little  by  the  glow  in  his  eye 
and  a  certain  superior  animation  of  face  and  alertness 

84 


A  LEAF  FROM   CHRISTINA'S  PSALM-BOOK 

of  body ;  but  even  Dandie  slouched  like  a  rustic.  The 
rest  of  the  congregation,  like  so  many  sheep,  oppressed 
him  with  a  sense  of  hob-nailed  routine,  day  following 
day  —  of  physical  labour  in  the  open  air,  oatmeal  por- 
ridge, peas  bannock,  the  somnolent  fire-side  in  the  eve- 
ning, and  the  night-long  nasal  slumbers  in  a  box-bed. 
Yet  he  knew  many  of  them  to  be  shrewd  and  humor- 
ous, men  of  character,  notable  women,  making  a  bustle 
in  the  world  and  radiating  an  influence  from  their  low- 
browed doors.  He  knew  besides  they  were  like  other 
men;  below  the  crust  of  custom,  rapture  found  a  way; 
he  had  heard  them  beat  the  timbrel  before  Bacchus  — 
had  heard  them  shout  and  carouse  over  their  whisky 
toddy;  and  not  the  most  Dutch-bottomed  and  severe 
faces  among  them  all,  not  even  the  solemn  elders  them- 
selves, but  were  capable  of  singular  gambols  at  the 
voice  of  love.  Men  drawing  near  to  an  end  of  life's 
adventurous  journey  —  maids  thrilling  with  fear  and 
curiosity  on  the  threshold  of  entrance  —  women  who 
had  borne  and  perhaps  buried  children,  who  could  re- 
member the  clinging  of  the  small  dead  hands  and  the 
patter  of  the  little  feet  now  silent  —  he  marvelled  that 
among  all  those  faces  there  should  be  no  face  of  expec- 
tation, none  that  was  mobile,  none  into  which  the 
rhythm  and  poetry  of  life  had  entered.  "O  for  a  live 
face,"  he  thought;  and  at  times  he  had  a  memory  of 
Lady  Flora;  and  at  times  he  would  study  the  living 
gallery  before  him  with  despair,  and  would  see  himself 
go  on  to  waste  his  days  in  that  joyless,  pastoral  place, 
and  death  come  to  him,  and  his  grave  be  dug  under 
the  rowans,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  laugh  out  in  a 
thunder-peal  at  the  huge  fiasco. 

85 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  there  was  no  doubt  but 
that  the  spring  had  come  at  last.  It  was  warm,  with  a 
latent  shiver  in  the  air  that  made  the  warmth  only  the 
more  welcome.  The  shallows  of  the  stream  glittered 
and  tinkled  among  bunches  of  primrose.  Vagrant 
scents  of  the  earth  arrested  Archie  by  the  way  with 
moments  of  ethereal  intoxication.  The  grey,  Quaker- 
ish dale  was  still  only  awakened  in  places  and  patches 
from  the  sobriety  of  its  wintry  colouring;  and  he  won- 
dered at  its  beauty ;  an  essential  beauty  of  the  old  earth 
it  seemed  to  him,  not  resident  in  particulars  but  breath- 
ing to  him  from  the  whole.  He  surprised  himself  by  a 
sudden  impulse  to  write  poetry  —  he  did  so  sometimes, 
loose,  galloping  octosyllabics  in  the  vein  of  Scott  —  and 
when  he  had  taken  his  place  on  a  boulder,  near  some 
fairy  falls  and  shaded  by  a  whip  of  a  tree  that  was  al- 
ready radiant  with  new  leaves,  it  still  more  surprised 
him  that  he  should  find  nothing  to  write.  His  heart 
perhaps  beat  in  time  to  some  vast  indwelling  rhythm 
of  the  universe.  By  the  time  he  came  to  a  corner  of 
the  valley  and  could  see  the  kirk,  he  had  so  lingered  by 
the  way  that  the  first  psalm  was  finishing.  The  nasal 
psalmody,  full  of  turns  and  trills  and  graceless  graces, 
seemed  the  essential  voice  of  the  kirk  itself  upraised  in 
thanksgiving.  "Everything's  alive,"  he  said;  and 
again  cries  it  aloud,  "  Thank  God,  everything's  alive! " 
He  lingered  yet  awhile  in  the  kirk-yard.  A  tuft  of 
primroses  was  blooming  hard  by  the  leg  of  an  old, 
black  table  tombstone,  and  he  stopped  to  contemplate 
the  random  apologue.  They  stood  forth  on  the  cold 
earth  with  a  trenchancy  of  contrast ;  and  he  was  struck 
with  a  sense  of  incompleteness  in  the  day,  the  season, 

86 


A  LEAK  FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

and  the  beauty  that  surrounded  him  —  the  chill  there 
was  in  the  warmth,  the  gross  black  clods  about  the 
opening  primroses,  the  damp  earthy  smell  that  was 
everywhere  intermingled  with  the  scents.  The  voice 
of  the  aged  Torrance  within  rose  in  an  ecstasy.  And 
he  wondered  if  Torrance  also  felt  in  his  old  bones  the 
joyous  influence  of  the  spring  morning;  Torrance,  or 
the  shadow  of  what  once  was  Torrance,  that  must  come 
so  soon  to  lie  outside  here  in  the  sun  and  rain  with  all 
his  rheumatisms,  while  a  new  minister  stood  in  his 
room  and  thundered  from  his  own  familiar  pulpit  ?  The 
pity  of  it,  and  something  of  the  chill  of  the  grave,  shook 
him  for  a  moment  as  he  made  haste  to  enter. 

He  went  up  the  aisle  reverently  and  took  his  place  in 
the  pew  with  lowered  eyes,  for  he  feared  he  had  already 
offended  the  kind  old  gentleman  in  the  pulpit,  and  was 
sedulous  to  offend  no  farther.  He  could  not  follow  the 
prayer,  not  even  the  heads  of  it.  Brightnesses  of  azure, 
clouds  of  fragrance,  a  tinkle  of  falling  water  and  singing 
birds,  rose  like  exhalations  from  some  deeper,  aborig- 
inal memory,  that  was  not  his,  but  belonged  to  the 
flesh  on  his  bones.  His  body  remembered;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  body  was  in  no  way  gross,  but 
ethereal  and  perishable  like  a  strain  of  music;  and  he 
felt  for  it  an  exquisite  tenderness  as  for  a  child,  an  in- 
nocent, full  of  beautiful  instincts  and  destined  to  an 
early  death.  And  he  felt  for  old  Torrance  —  of  the 
many  supplications,  of  the  few  days  —  a  pity  that  was 
near  to  tears.  The  prayer  ended.  Right  over  him  was 
a  tablet  in  the  wall,  the  only  ornament  in  the  roughly 
masoned  chapel  —  for  it  was  no  more;  the  tablet  com- 
memorated, I  was  about  to  say  the  virtues,  but  rather 

87 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

the  existence  of  a  former  Rutherford  of  Hermiston;  and 
Archie,  under  that  trophy  of  his  long  descent  and  local 
greatness,  leaned  back  in  the  pew  and  contemplated 
vacancy  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile  between  playful 
and  sad,  that  became  him  strangely.  Dandie's  sister, 
sitting  by  the  side  of  Clem  in  her  new  Glasgow  fmery, 
chose  that  moment  to  observe  the  young  laird.  Aware 
of  the  stir  of  his  entrance,  the  little  formalist  had  kept 
her  eyes  fastened  and  her  face  prettily  composed  dur- 
ing the  prayer.  It  was  not  hypocrisy,  there  was  no 
one  farther  from  a  hypocrite.  The  girl  had  been  taught 
to  behave:  to  look  up,  to  look  down,  to  look  uncon- 
scious, to  look  seriously  impressed  in  church,  and  in 
every  conjuncture  to  look  her  best.  That  was  the  game 
of  female  life,  and  she  played  it  frankly.  Archie  was 
the  one  person  in  church  who  was  of  interest,  who  was 
somebody  new,  reputed  eccentric,  known  to  be  young, 
and  a  laird,  and  still  unseen  by  Christina.  Small  won- 
der that,  as  she  stood  there  in  her  attitude  of  pretty  de- 
cency, her  mind  should  run  upon  him!  If  he  spared  a 
glance  in  her  direction,  he  should  know  she  was  a  well- 
behaved  young  lady  who  had  been  to  Glasgow.  In 
reason  he  must  admire  her  clothes,  and  it  was  possible 
that  he  should  think  her  pretty.  At  that  her  heart  beat 
the  least  thing  in  the  world;  and  she  proceeded,  by  way 
of  a  corrective,  to  call  up  and  dismiss  a  series  of  fancied 
pictures  of  the  young  man  who  should  now,  by  rights, 
be  looking  at  her.  She  settled  on  the  plainest  of  them, 
a  pink  short  young  man  with  a  dish  face  and  no  figure, 
at  whose  admiration  she  could  afford  to  smile;  but  for 
all  that,  the  consciousness  of  his  gaze  (which  was  really 
fixed  on  Torrance  and  his  mittens)  kept  her  in  some- 

88 


A   LEAF   FROM  CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

thing  of  a  flutter  till  the  word  Amen.  Even  then,  she 
was  far  too  well-bred  to  gratify  her  curiosity  with  any 
impatience.  She  resumed  her  seat  languidly — this  was 
a  Glasgow  touch  —  she  composed  her  dress,  rearranged 
her  nosegay  of  primroses,  looked  first  in  front,  then  be- 
hind upon  the  other  side,  and  at  last  allowed  her  eyes 
to  move,  without  hurry,  in  the  direction  of  the  Hermis- 
ton  pew.  For  a  moment,  they  were  riveted.  Next  she 
had  plucked  her  gaze  home  again  like  a  tame  bird  who 
should  have  meditated  flight.  Possibilities  crowded  on 
her;  she  hung  over  the  future  and  grew  dizzy;  the 
image  of  this  young  man,  slim,  graceful,  dark,  with  the 
inscrutable  half-smile,  attracted  and  repelled  her  like  a 
chasm.  "I  wonder,  will  I  have  met  my  fate?"  she 
thought,  and  her  heart  swelled. 

Torrance  was  got  some  way  into  his  first  exposition, 
positing  a  deep  layer  of  texts  as  he  went  along,  laying 
the  foundations  of  his  discourse,  which  was  to  deal  with 
a  nice  point  in  divinity,  before  Archie  suffered  his  eyes 
to  wander.  They  fell  first  of  all  on  Clem,  looking  in- 
supportably  prosperous  and  patronizing  Torrance  with 
the  favour  of  a  modified  attention,  as  of  one  who  was 
used  to  better  things  in  Glasgow.  Though  he  had 
never  before  set  eyes  on  him,  Archie  had  no  difficulty 
in  identifying  him,  and  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing 
him  vulgar,  the  worst  of  the  family.  Clem  was  leaning 
lazily  forward  when  Archie  first  saw  him.  Presently  he 
leaned  nonchalantly  back;  and  that  deadly  instrument, 
the  maiden,  was  suddenly  unmasked  in  profile.  Though 
not  quite  in  the  front  of  the  fashion  (had  anybody  cared !), 
certain  artful  Glasgow  mantua-makers,  and  her  own  in- 
herent taste,  had  arrayed  her  to  great  advantage.     Her 

89 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

accoutrement  was,  indeed,  a  cause  of  heart-burning, 
and  almost  of  scandal,  in  that  infinitesimal  kirk  com- 
pany. Mrs.  Hob  had  said  her  say  at  Cauldstaneslap. 
"  Daft-like!  "  she  had  pronounced  it.  **  A  jaiket  that'll 
no  meet !  Whaur's  the  sense  of  a  jaiket  that'll  no  button 
upon  you,  if  it  should  come  to  be  weet  ?  What  do  ye 
ca'  thir  things  ?  Demmy  brokens,  d'ye  say  ?  They'll 
be  brokens  wi'  a  vengeance  or  ye  can  win  back !  Weel, 
I  have  naething  to  do  wi'  it  —  it's  no  good  taste." 
Clem,  whose  purse  had  thus  metamorphosed  his  sister, 
and  who  was  not  insensible  to  the  advertisement,  had 
come  to  the  rescue  with  a  "  Hoot,  woman!  What  do 
you  ken  of  good  taste  that  has  never  been  to  the  ceety?" 
And  Hob,  looking  on  the  girl  with  pleased  smiles,  as 
she  timidly  displayed  her  finery  in  the  midst  of  the  dark 
kitchen,  had  thus  ended  the  dispute:  "The  cutty  looks 
weel,"  he  had  said,  *'and  it's  no  very  like  rain.  Wear 
them  the  day,  hizzie ;  but  it's  no  a  thing  to  make  a  prac- 
tice o*."  In  the  breasts  of  her  rivals,  coming  to  the  kirk 
very  conscious  of  white  under-linen,  and  their  faces 
splendid  with  much  soap,  the  sight  of  the  toilet  had 
raised  a  storm  of  varying  emotion,  from  the  mere  un- 
envious  admiration  that  was  expressed  in  the  long-drawn 
**  Eh!  "  to  the  angrier  feeling  that  found  vent  in  an  em- 
phatic "  Set  her  up !  "  Her  frock  was  of  straw-coloured 
jaconet  muslin,  cut  low  at  the  bosom  and  short  at  the 
ankle,  so  as  to  display  her  demi-broqutns  of  Regency 
violet,  crossing  with  many  straps  upon  a  yellow  cobweb 
stocking.  According  to  the  pretty  fashion  in  which  our 
grandmothers  did  not  hesitate  to  appear,  and  our  great- 
aunts  went  forth  armed  for  the  pursuit  and  capture  of 
our  great-uncles,  the  dress  was  drawn   up  so  as  to 

90 


A   LEAF   FROM  CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

mould  the  contour  of  both  breasts,  and  in  the  nook  be- 
tween a  cairngorm  brooch  maintained  it.  Here,  too, 
surely  in  a  very  enviable  position,  trembled  the  nosegay 
of  primroses.  She  wore  on  her  shoulders  —  or  rather, 
on  her  back  and  not  her  shoulders,  which  it  scarcely 
passed  —  a  French  coat  of  sarsenet,  tied  in  front  with 
Margate  braces,  and  of  the  same  colour  with  her  violet 
shoes.  About  her  face  clustered  a  disorder  of  dark  ring- 
lets, a  little  garland  of  yellow  French  roses  surmounted 
her  brow,  and  the  whole  was  crowned  by  a  village  hat 
of  chipped  straw.  Amongst  all  the  rosy  and  all  the 
weathered  faces  that  surrounded  her  in  church,  she 
glowed  like  an  open  flower  —  girl  and  raiment,  and  the 
cairngorm  that  caught  the  daylight  and  returned  it  in  a 
fiery  flash,  and  the  threads  of  bronze  and  gold  that 
played  in  her  hair. 

Archie  was  attracted  by  the  bright  thing  like  a  child. 
He  looked  at  her  again  and  yet  again,  and  their  looks 
crossed.  The  lip  was  lifted  from  her  little  teeth.  He 
saw  the  red  blood  work  vividly  under  her  tawny  skin. 
Her  eye,  which  was  great  as  a  stag's,  struck  and  held 
his  gaze.  He  knew  who  she  must  be  —  Kirstie,  she  of 
the  harsh  diminutive,  his  housekeeper's  niece,  the  sister 
of  the  rustic  prophet,  Gib  —  and  he  found  in  her  the 
answer  to  his  wishes. 

Christina  felt  the  shock  of  their  encountering  glances, 
and  seemed  to  rise,  clothed  in  smiles,  into  a  region  of 
the  vague  and  bright.  But  the  gratification  was  not 
more  exquisite  than  it  was  brief.  She  looked  away 
abruptly,  and  immediately  began  to  blame  herself  for 
that  abruptness.  She  knew  what  she  should  have 
done,  too  late  —  turned  slowly  with  her  nose  in  the  air. 

91 


WEIR.  OF  HERMISTON 

And  meantime  his  look  was  not  removed,  but  contin- 
ued to  play  upon  her  like  a  battery  of  cannon  con- 
stantly aimed,  and  now  seemed  to  isolate  her  alone  with 
him,  and  now  seemed  to  uplift  her,  as  on  a  pillory,  be- 
fore the  congregation.  For  Archie  continued  to  drink 
her  in  with  his  eyes,  even  as  a  wayfarer  comes  to  a 
well-head  on  a  mountain,  and  stoops  his  face,  and 
drinks  with  thirst  unassuageable.  In  the  cleft  of  her 
little  breasts  the  fiery  eye  of  the  topaz  and  the  pale  flor- 
ets of  primrose  fascinated  him.  He  saw  the  breasts 
heave,  and  the  flowers  shake  with  the  heaving,  and 
marvelled  what  should  so  much  discompose  the  girl. 
And  Christina  was  conscious  of  his  gaze  —  saw  it,  per- 
haps, with  the  dainty  plaything  of  an  ear  that  peeped 
among  her  ringlets;  she  was  conscious  of  changing 
colour,  conscious  of  her  unsteady  breath.  Like  a  crea- 
ture tracked,  run  down,  surrounded,  she  sought  in  a 
dozen  ways  to  give  herself  a  countenance.  She  used 
her  handkerchief — it  was  a  really  fine  one  —  then  she 
desisted  in  a  panic:  "He  would  only  think  I  was  too 
warm."  She  took  to  reading  in  the  metrical  psalms, 
and  then  remembered  it  was  sermon-time.  Last  she 
put  a  "  sugar-bool "  in  her  mouth,  and  the  next  moment 
repented  of  the  step.  It  was  such  a  homely-like  thing! 
Mr.  Archie  would  never  be  eating  sweeties  in  kirk;  and, 
with  a  palpable  effort,  she  swallowed  it  whole,  and  her 
color  flamed  high.  At  this  signal  of  distress  Archie 
awoke  to  a  sense  of  his  ill-behaviour.  What  had  he  been 
doing?  He  had  been  exquisitely  rude  in  church  to  the 
niece  of  his  housekeeper;  he  had  stared  like  a  lackey  and 
a  libertine  at  a  beautiful  and  modest  girl.  It  was  possible, 
it  was  even  likely,  he  would  be  presented  to  her  after 

9a 


A   LEAF   FROM  CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

service  in  the  kirk-yard,  and  then  how  was  he  to  look » 
And  there  was  no  excuse.  He  had  marked  the  tokens 
of  her  shame,  of  her  increasing  indignation,  and  he  was 
such  a  fool  that  he  had  not  understood  them.  Shame 
bowed  him  down,  and  he  looked  resolutely  at  Mr.  Tor- 
rance; who  little  supposed,  good,  worthy  man,  as  he 
continued  to  expound  justification  by  faith,  what  was 
his  true  business :  to  play  the  part  of  derivative  to  a  pair 
of  children  at  the  old  game  of  falling  in  love. 

Christina  was  greatly  relieved  at  first.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  clothed  again.  She  looked  back  on 
what  had  passed.  All  would  have  been  right  if  she 
had  not  blushed,  a  silly  fool!  There  was  nothing  to 
blush  at,  if  she  had  taken  a  sugar-bool.  Mrs.  MacTag- 
gart,  the  elder's  wife  in  St.  Enoch's,  took  them  often. 
And  if  he  had  looked  at  her,  what  was  more  natural 
than  that  a  young  gentleman  should  look  at  the  best- 
dressed  girl  in  church  ?  And  at  the  same  time,  she 
knew  far  otherwise,  she  knew  there  was  nothing  cas- 
ual or  ordinary  in  the  look,  and  valued  herself  on  its 
memory  like  a  decoration.  Well,  it  was  a  blessing  he 
had  found  something  else  to  look  at!  And  presently 
she  began  to  have  other  thoughts.  It  was  necessary, 
she  fancied,  that  she  should  put  herself  right  by  a  rep- 
etition  of  the  incident,  better  managed.  If  the  wish 
was  father  to  the  thought,  she  did  not  know  or  she 
would  not  recognise  it.  It  was  simply  as  a  manoeuvre 
of  propriety,  as  something  called  for  to  lessen  the  sig- 
nificance of  what  had  gone  before,  that  she  should  a 
second  time  meet  his  eyes,  and  this  time  without  blush- 
ing. And  at  the  memory  of  the  blush,  she  blushed 
again,  and  became  one  general  blush  burning  from  head 

95 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

to  foot.  Was  ever  anything  so  indelicate,  so  forward, 
done  by  a  girl  before  ?  And  here  she  was,  making  an 
exhibition  of  herself  before  the  congregation  about  noth- 
ing! She  stole  a  glance  upon  her  neighbours,  and  be- 
hold! they  were  steadily  indifferent,  and  Clem  had  gone 
to  sleep.  And  still  the  one  idea  was  becoming  more 
and  more  potent  with  her,  that  in  common  prudence 
she  must  look  again  before  the  service  ended.  Some- 
thing of  the  same  sort  was  going  forward  in  the  mind 
of  Archie,  as  he  struggled  with  the  load  of  penitence. 
So  it  chanced  that,  in  the  flutter  of  the  moment  when 
the  last  psalm  was  given  out,  and  Torrance  was  reading 
the  verse,  and  the  leaves  of  every  psalm-book  in  church 
were  rustling  under  busy  fingers,  two  stealthy  glances 
were  sent  out  like  antennae  among  the  pews  and  on  the 
indifferent  and  absorbed  occupants,  and  drew  timidly 
nearer  to  the  straight  line  between  Archie  and  Christina. 
They  met,  they  lingered  together  for  the  least  fraction 
of  time,  and  that  was  enough.  A  charge  as  of  electric- 
ity passed  through  Christina,  and  behold!  the  leaf  of  her 
psalm-book  was  torn  across. 

Archie  was  outside  by  the  gate  of  the  graveyard,  con- 
versing with  Hob  and  the  minister  and  shaking  hands 
all  round  with  the  scattering  congregation,  when  Clem 
and  Christina  were  brought  up  to  be  presented.  The 
laird  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  to  her  with  grace  and 
respect.  Christina  made  her  Glasgow  curtsey  to  the 
laird,  and  went  on  again  up  the  road  for  Hermiston  and 
Cauldstaneslap,  walking  fast,  breathing  hurriedly  with 
a  heightened  colour,  and  in  this  strange  frame  of  mind, 
that  when  she  was  alone  she  seemed  in  high  happiness, 
and  when  anyone  addressed  her  she  resented  it  like  a 

94 


A   LEAF  FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

contradiction.  A  part  of  the  way  she  had  the  company 
of  some  neighbour  girls  and  a  loutish  young  man ;  never 
had  they  seemed  so  insipid,  never  had  she  made  herself 
so  disagreeable.  But  these  struck  aside  to  their  various 
destinations  or  were  out-walked  and  left  behind;  and 
when  she  had  driven  off  with  sharp  words  the  proffered 
convoy  of  some  of  her  nephews  and  nieces,  she  was 
free  to  go  on  alone  up  Hermiston  brae,  walking  on  air, 
dwelling  intoxicated  among  clouds  of  happiness.  Near 
to  the  summit  she  heard  steps  behind  her,  a  man's  steps, 
light  and  very  rapid.  She  knew  the  foot  at  once  and 
walked  the  faster.  "  If  it's  me  he's  wanting  he  can  run 
for  it,"  she  thought,  smiling. 

Archie  overtook  her  like  a  man  whose  mind  was 
made  up. 

"Miss  Kirstie,"  he  began. 

"Miss  Christina,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Weir,"  she  inter- 
rupted.    "  I  canna  bear  the  contraction." 

"You  forget  it  has  a  friendly  sound  for  me.  Your 
aunt  is  an  old  friend  of  mine  and  a  very  good  one.  I 
hope  we  shall  see  much  of  you  at  Hermiston  ?" 

"My  aunt  and  my  sister-in-law  doesna  agree  very 
well.  Not  that  I  have  much  ado  with  it.  But  still 
when  I'm  stopping  in  the  house,  if  I  was  to  be  visiting 
my  aunt,  it  would  not  look  considerate-like." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Archie. 

"I  thank  you  kindly,  Mr.  Weir,"  she  said.  "I 
whiles  think  myself  it's  a  great  peety." 

"Ah,  I  am  sure  your  voice  would  always  be  for 
peace!"  he  cried. 

"I  wouldna  be  too  sure  of  that,"  she  said.  "I  have 
my  days  like  other  folk,  I  suppose." 

95 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

"Do  you  know,  in  our  old  kirk,  among  our  good 
old  grey  dames,  you  made  an  effect  like  sunshine." 

"Ah,  but  that  would  be  my  Glasgow  clothes!  " 

"I  did  not  think  I  was  so  much  under  the  influence 
of  pretty  frocks." 

She  smiled  with  a  half  look  at  him.  "There's  more 
than  you!"  she  said.  "But  you  see  I'm  only  Cinde- 
rella. I'll  have  to  put  all  these  things  by  in  my  trunk; 
next  Sunday  I'll  be  as  grey  as  the  rest.  They're  Glas- 
gow clothes,  you  see,  and  it  would  never  do  to  make  a 
practice  of  it.     It  would  seem  terrible  conspicuous." 

By  that  they  were  come  to  the  place  where  their 
ways  severed.  The  old  grey  moors  were  all  about 
them;  in  the  midst  a  few  sheep  wandered;  and  they 
could  see  on  the  one  hand  the  straggling  caravan  scal- 
ing the  braes  in  front  of  them  for  Cauldstaneslap,  and 
on  the  other,  the  contingent  from  Hermiston  bending 
off  and  beginning  to  disappear  by  detachments  into  the 
policy  gate.  It  was  in  these  circumstances  that  they 
turned  to  say  farewell,  and  deliberately  exchanged  a 
glance  as  they  shook  hands.  All  passed  as  it  should, 
genteelly;  and  in  Christina's  mind,  as  she  mounted  the 
first  steep  ascent  for  Cauldstaneslap,  a  gratifying  sense 
of  triumph  prevailed  over  the  recollection  of  minor  lapses 
and  mistakes.  She  had  kilted  her  gown,  as  she  did 
usually  at  that  rugged  pass;  but  when  she  spied  Archie 
still  standing  and  gazing  after  her,  the  skirts  came  down 
again  as  if  by  enchantment.  Here  was  a  piece  of  nicety 
for  that  upland  parish,  where  the  matrons  marched  with 
their  coats  kilted  in  the  rain,  and  the  lasses  walked  bare- 
foot to  kirk  through  the  dust  of  summer,  and  went 
bravely  down  by  the  burnside,  and  sat  on  stones  to 

96 


A  LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

make  a  public  toilet  before  entering!  It  was  perhaps  an 
air  wafted  from  Glasgow ;  or  perhaps  it  marked  a  stage 
of  that  dizziness  of  gratified  vanity,  in  which  the  in- 
stinctive act  passed  unperceived.  He  was  looking  after! 
She  unloaded  her  bosom  of  a  prodigious  sigh  that  was 
all  pleasure,  and  betook  herself  to  run.  When  she  had 
overtaken  the  stragglers  of  her  family,  she  caught  up 
the  niece  whom  she  had  so  recently  repulsed,  and  kissed 
and  slapped  her,  and  drove  her  away  again,  and  ran 
after  her  with  pretty  cries  and  laughter.  Perhaps  she 
thought  the  laird  might  still  be  looking!  But  it  chanced 
the  little  scene  came  under  the  view  of  eyes  less  favour- 
able; for  she  overtook  Mrs.  Hob  marching  with  Clem 
and  Dand. 

"  You're  shurely  fey,^  lass!  "  quoth  Dandie. 

"  Think  shame  to  yersel',  miss !  "  said  the  strident  Mrs. 
Hob.  "  Is  this  the  gait  to  guide  yersel'  on  the  way  hame 
frae  kirk  ?  You're  shurely  no  sponsible  the  day.  And 
anyway  I  would  mind  my  guid  claes." 

"Hoot!"  said  Christina,  and  went  on  before  them 
head  in  air,  treading  the  rough  track  with  the  tread  of  a 
wild  doe. 

She  was  in  love  with  herself,  her  destiny,  the  air  of 
the  hills,  the  benediction  of  the  sun.  All  the  way  home, 
she  continued  under  the  intoxication  of  these  sky-scrap- 
ing spirits.  At  table  she  could  talk  freely  of  young  Hermis- 
ton;  gave  her  opinion  of  him  off-hand  and  with  a  loud 
voice,  that  he  was  a  handsome  young  gentleman,  real 
well-mannered  and  sensible-like,  but  it  was  a  pity  he 
looked  doleful.     Only  —  the  moment  after  —  a  memory 

1  Unlike  yourself,  strange,  as  persons  are  observed  to  be  in  the  hour 
of  approaching  death  or  calamity, 

97 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

0/  his  eyes  in  church  embarrassed  her.  But  for  this  in- 
considerable check,  all  through  meal-time  she  had  a  good 
appetite,  and  she  kept  them  laughing  at  table,  until  Gib 
(who  had  returned  before  them  from  Crossmichael  and 
his  separative  worship)  reproved  the  whole  of  them  for 
their  levity. 

Singing  *Mn  to  herself"  as  she  went,  her  mind  still 
in  the  turmoil  of  glad  confusion,  she  rose  and  tripped 
upstairs  to  a  little  loft,  lighted  by  four  panes  in  the  gable, 
where  she  slept  with  one  of  her  nieces.  The  niece,  who 
followed  her,  presuming  on  ''Auntie's"  high  spirits, 
was  flounced  out  of  the  apartment  with  small  ceremony, 
and  retired,  smarting  and  half-tearful,  to  bury  her  woes 
in  the  byre  among  the  hay.  Still  humming,  Christina 
divested  herself  of  her  fmery,  and  put  her  treasures  one  by 
one  in  her  great  green  trunk.  The  last  of  these  was  the 
psalm-book ;  it  was  a  fine  piece,  the  gift  of  Mistress  Clem, 
in  distinct  old-faced  type,  on  paper  that  had  begun  to 
grow  foxy  in  the  warehouse —  not  by  service  —  and  she 
was  used  to  wrap  it  in  a  handkerchief  every  Sunday 
after  its  period  of  service  was  over,  and  bury  it  end-wise 
at  the  head  of  her  trunk.  As  she  now  took  it  in  hand 
the  book  fell  open  where  the  leaf  was  torn,  and  she  stood 
and  gazed  upon  that  evidence  of  her  by-gone  discom- 
posure. There  returned  again  the  vision  of  the  two 
brown  eyes  staring  at  her,  intent  and  bright,  out  of  that 
dark  corner  of  the  kirk.  The  whole  appearance  and 
attitude,  the  smile,  the  suggested  gesture  of  young  Her- 
miston  came  before  her  in  a  flash  at  the  sight  of  the  torn 
page.  **  I  was  surely  fey !  "  she  said,  echoing  the  words 
of  Dandie,  and  at  the  suggested  doom  her  high  spirits 
deserted  her.     She  flung  herself  prone  upon  the  bed, 

98 


A  LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

and  lay  there,  holding  the  psalm-book  in  her  hands  for 
hours,  for  the  more  part  in  a  mere  stupor  of  unconsent- 
ing  pleasure  and  unreasoning  fear.  The  fear  was  super- 
stitious; there  came  up  again  and  again  in  her  memory 
Dandie's  ill-omened  words,  and  a  hundred  grisly  and 
black  tales  out  of  the  immediate  neighbourhood  read  her 
a  commentary  on  their  force.  The  pleasure  was  never 
realized.  You  might  say  the  joints  of  her  body  thought 
and  remembered,  and  were  gladdened,  but  her  essential 
self,  in  th«  immediate  theatre  of  consciousness,  talked 
feverishly  of  something  else,  like  a  nervous  person  at  a 
fire.  The  image  that  she  most  complacently  dwelt  on  was 
that  of  Miss  Christina  in  her  character  of  the  Fair  Lass 
of  Cauldstaneslap,  carrying  all  before  her  in  the  straw- 
coloured  frock,  the  violet  mantle,  and  the  yellow  cobweb 
stockings.  Archie's  image,  on  the  other  hand,  when  it 
presented  itself  was  never  welcomed  —  far  less  wel- 
comed with  any  ardour,  and  it  was  exposed  at  times  to 
merciless  criticism.  In  the  long,  vague  dialogues  she 
held  in  her  mind,  often  with  imaginary,  often  with  un- 
realised interlocutors,  Archie,  if  he  were  referred  to  at  all, 
came  in  for  savage  handling.  He  was  described  as 
** looking  like  a  stork,"  ''staring  like  a  caulf,"  "a  face 
like  a  ghaist's."  "Do  you  call  that  manners?"  she 
said;  or,  "I  soon  put  him  in  his  place."  ''  'Mhs  Chris- 
tina, if  you  please,  Mr.  Weir  !  '  says  I,  and  just  flyped 
up  my  skirt  tails."  With  gabble  like  this  she  would 
entertain  herself  long  whiles  together,  and  then  her  eye 
would  perhaps  fall  on  the  torn  leaf,  and  the  eyes  of  Ar- 
chie would  appear  again  from  the  darkness  of  the  wall, 
and  the  voluble  words  deserted  her,  and  she  would  lie 
still  and  stupid,  and  think  upon  nothing  with  devotion, 

99 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

and  be  sometimes  raised  by  a  quiet  sigh.  Had  a  doctor 
of  medicine  come  into  that  loft,  he  would  have  diagnosed 
a  healthy,  well-developed,  eminently  vivacious  lass  ly- 
ing on  her  face  in  a  fit  of  the  sulks;  not  one  who  had 
just  contracted,  or  was  just  contracting,  a  mortal  sick- 
ness of  the  mind  which  should  yet  carry  her  towards 
death  and  despair.  Had  it  been  a  doctor  of  psychology, 
he  might  have  been  pardoned  for  divining  in  the  girl  a 
passion  of  childish  vanity,  self-love  in  excelsis,  and  no 
more.  It  is  to  be  understood  that  I  have  been  painting 
chaos  and  describing  the  inarticulate.  Every  lineament 
that  appears  is  too  precise,  almost  every  word  used  too 
strong.  Take  a  fmger-post  in  the  mountains  on  a  day 
of  rolling  mists;  I  have  but  copied  the  names  that  appear 
upon  the  pointers,  the  names  of  definite  and  famous 
cities  far  distant,  and  now  perhaps  basking  in  sunshine; 
but  Christina  remained  all  these  hours,  as  it  were,  at  the 
foot  of  the  post  itself,  not  moving,  and  enveloped  in 
mutable  and  blinding  wreaths  of  haze. 

The  day  was  growing  late  and  the  sunbeams  long 
and  level,  when  she  sat  suddenly  up,  and  wrapped  in 
its  handkerchief  and  put  by  that  psalm-book  which  had 
already  played  a  part  so  decisive  in  the  first  chapter  of 
her  love-story.  In  the  absence  of  the  mesmerist's  eye, 
we  are  told  nowadays  that  the  head  of  a  bright  nail  may 
fill  his  place,  if  it  be  steadfastly  regarded.  So  that  torn 
page  had  riveted  her  attention  on  what  might  else  have 
been  but  little,  and  perhaps  soon  forgotten ;  while  the 
ominous  words  of  Dandie  —  heard,  not  heeded,  and 
still  remembered  —  had  lent  to  her  thoughts,  or  rather 
to  her  mood,  a  cast  of  solemnity,  and  that  idea  of  Fate  — 
a  pagan  Fate,  uncontrolled  by  any  Christian  deity,  ob- 

lOO 


A   LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

scure,  lawless,  and  august  —  moving  indissuadably  in 
the  affairs  of  Christian  men.  Thus  even  that  phenom- 
enon of  love  at  first  sight,  which  is  so  rare  and  seems 
so  simple  and  violent,  like  a  disruption  of  life's  tissue, 
may  be  decomposed  into  a  sequence  of  accidents  hap- 
pily concurring. 

She  put  on  a  grey  frock  and  a  pink  kerchief,  looked 
at  herself  a  moment  with  approval  in  the  small  square 
of  glass  that  served  her  for  a  toilet  mirror,  and  went 
softly  down-stairs  through  the  sleeping  house  that  re- 
sounded with  the  sound  of  afternoon  snoring.  Just 
outside  the  door  Dandle  was  sitting  with  a  book  in  his 
hand,  not  reading,  only  honouring  the  Sabbath  by  a  sa- 
cred vacancy  of  mind.  She  came  near  him  and  stood 
still. 

*M  'm  for  off  up  the  muirs,  Dandie,"  she  said. 

There  was  something  unusually  soft  in  her  tones  that 
made  him  look  up.  She  was  pale,  her  eyes  dark  and 
bright;  no  trace  remained  of  the  levity  of  the  morning. 

*'Ay,  lass?  Ye'll  have  ye're  ups  and  downs  like 
me,  I'm  thinkin',"  he  observed. 

*'  What  for  do  ye  say  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  O,  for  naething,"  says  Dand.  "  Only  I  think  ye're 
mair  like  me  than  the  lave  of  them.  Ye've  mair  of  the 
poetic  temper,  tho'  Guid  kens  little  enough  of  the  poetic 
taalent.  It's  an  ill  gift  at  the  best.  Look  at  yoursel'. 
At  denner  you  were  all  sunshine  and  flowers  and  laugh- 
ter, and  now  you  're  like  the  star  of  evening  on  a  lake." 

She  drank  in  this  hackneyed  compliment  like  wine, 
and  it  glowed  in  her  veins. 

"But  I'm  saying,  Dand"  —  she  came  nearer  him  — 
"Vm  for  the  muirs.     I  must  have  a  braith  of  air.     If 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

Clem  was  to  be  speiring  for  me,  try  and  quaiet  him,  will 
ye  no?" 

'*What  way?"  said  Dandie.  '*l  ken  but  the  ae 
way,  and  that's  leein'.  I'll  say  ye  had  a  sair  heed,  if 
ye  like." 

**  But  1  havena,"  she  objected. 

*'  I  daur  say  not,"  he  returned.  **  I  said  I  would  say 
ye  had;  and  if  ye  like  to  nay-say  me  when  ye  come 
back,  it'll  no  mateerially  maitter,  for  my  chara'ter's 
clean  gane  a'ready  past  reca'." 

"O,  Dand,  are  ye  a  leear?"  she  asked,  lingering. 

**  Folks  say  sae,"  replied  the  bard. 

"  Wha  says  sae  ?"  she  pursued. 

"Them  that  should  ken  the  best,"  he  responded. 
"The  lassies,  for  ane." 

"  But,  Dand,  you  would  never  lee  to  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I'll  leave  that  for  your  pairt  of  it,  ye  girzie,"  said 
he.  "  Ye'll  lee  to  me  fast  eneuch,  when  ye  hae  got- 
ten a  jo.  I'm  tellin'  ye  and  it's  true;  when  you  have 
a  jo.  Miss  Kirstie,  it'll  be  for  guid  and  ill.  I  ken :  I  was 
made  that  way  mysel',  but  the  deil  was  in  my  luck! 
Here,  gang  awa  wi'  ye  to  your  muirs,  and  let  me  be; 
I'm  in  an  hour  of  inspiraution,  ye  upsetting  tawpie!" 

But  she  clung  to  her  brother's  neighbourhood,  she 
knew  not  why. 

"  Will  ye  no  gie's  a  kiss,  Dand  ?"  she  said.  "  I  aye 
likit  ye  fine." 

He  kissed  her  and  considered  her  a  moment;  he 
found  something  strange  in  her.  But  he  was  a  liber- 
tine through  and  through,  nourished  equal  contempt 
and  suspicion  of  all  womankind,  and  paid  his  way 
among  them  habitually  with  idle  compliments. 

103 


A   LEAF  FROM   CHRISTINA'S  PSALM-BOOK 

" Gae  wa'  wi'  ye! "  said  he.     "  Ye're  a  dentie  baby, 
and  be  content  wi'  that! " 

That  was  Dandie's  way;  a  kiss  and  a  comfit  to  Jenny 
—  a  bawbee  and  my  blessing  to  Jill  —  and  good  night 
to  the  whole  clan  of  ye,  my  dears !  When  anything 
approached  the  serious,  it  became  a  matter  for  men,  he 
both  thought  and  said.  Women,  when  they  did  not 
absorb,  were  only  children  to  be  shoo'd  away.  Merely 
in  his  character  of  connoisseur,  however,  Dandie  glanced 
carelessly  after  his  sister  as  she  crossed  the  meadow. 
'*The  brat's  no  that  bad!"  he  thought  with  surprise, 
for  though  he  had  just  been  paying  her  compliments, 
he  had  not  really  looked  at  her.  *'  Hey !  what's  yon  ?  " 
For  the  grey  dress  was  cut  with  short  sleeves  and  skirts, 
and  displayed  her  trim  strong  legs  clad  in  pink  stock- 
ings of  the  same  shade  as  the  kerchief  she  wore  round 
her  shoulders,  and  that  shimmered  as  she  went.  This 
was  not  her  way  in  undress;  he  knew  her  ways  and 
the  ways  of  the  whole  sex  in  the  country-side,  no  one 
better;  when  they  did  not  go  barefoot,  they  wore  stout 
*'rig  and  furrow"  woollen  hose  of  an  invisible  blue 
mostly,  when  they  were  not  black  outright;  and  Dan- 
die,  at  sight  of  this  daintiness,  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether. It  was  a  silk  handkerchief,  then  they  would  be 
silken  hose;  they  matched  —  then  the  whole  outfit  was 
a  present  of  Clem's,  a  costly  present,  and  not  something 
to  be  worn  through  bog  and  briar,  or  on  a  late  afternoon 
of  Sunday.  He  whistled.  ''My  denty  May,  either 
your  heid's  fair  turned,  or  there's  some  on-goings ! "  he 
observed,  and  dismissed  the  subject. 

She  went  slowly  at  first,  but  ever  straighter  and  faster 
for  the  Cauldstaneslap,  a  pass  among  the  hills  to  which 

103 


WEIR   OF   HERMISTON 

the  farm  owed  its  name.  The  Slap  opened  like  a  door- 
way between  two  rounded  hillocks;  and  through  this 
ran  the  short  cut  to  Hermiston.  Immediately  on  the 
other  side  it  went  down  through  the  Deil's  Hags,  a  con- 
siderable marshy  hollow  of  the  hill-tops,  full  of  springs, 
and  crouching  junipers,  and  pools  where  the  black  peat- 
water  slumbered.  There  was  no  view  from  here.  A 
man  might  have  sat  upon  the  Praying  Weaver's  stone  a 
half-century,  and  seen  none  but  the  Cauldstaneslap 
children  twice  in  the  twenty-four  hours  on  their  way  to 
the  school  and  back  again,  an  occasional  shepherd,  the 
irruption  of  a  clan  of  sheep,  or  the  birds  who  haunted 
about  the  springs,  drinking  and  shrilly  piping.  So, 
when  she  had  once  passed  the  Slap,  Kirstie  was  re- 
ceived into  seclusion.  She  looked  back  a  last  time  at 
the  farm.  It  still  lay  deserted  except  for  the  figure  of 
Dandie,  who  was  now  seen  to  be  scribbling  in  his  lap, 
the  hour  of  expected  inspiration  having  come  to  him  at 
last.  Thence  she  passed  rapidly  through  the  morass, 
and  came  to  the  further  end  of  it,  where  a  sluggish  burn 
discharges,  and  the  path  for  Hermiston  accompanies  it 
on  the  beginning  of  its  downward  path.  From  this 
corner  a  wide  view  was  opened  to  her  of  the  whole 
stretch  of  braes  upon  the  other  side,  still  sallow  and  in 
places  rusty  with  the  winter,  with  the  path  marked 
boldly,  here  and  there  by  the  burnside  a  tuft  of  birches, 
and  —  three  miles  off  as  the  crow  flies  —  from  its  en- 
closures, and  young  plantations,  the  windows  of  Her- 
miston glittering  in  the  western  sun. 

Here  she  sat  down  and  waited,  and  looked  for  a  long 
time  at  these  far-away  bright  panes  of  glass.  It  amused 
her  to  have  so  extended  a  view,  she  thought.  It  amused 

104 


A   LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

her  to  see  the  house  of  Hermiston  —  to  see  "  folk  ";  and 
there  was  an  indistinguishable  human  unit,  perhaps  the 
gardener,  visibly  sauntering  on  the  gravel  paths. 

By  the  time  the  sun  was  down  and  all  the  easterly 
braes  lay  plunged  in  clear  shadow,  she  was  aware  of 
another  figure  coming  up  the  path  at  a  most  unequal 
rate  of  approach,  now  half-running,  now  pausing  and 
seeming  to  hesitate.  She  watched  him  at  first  with  a 
total  suspension  of  thought.  She  held  her  thought  as  a 
person  holds  his  breathing.  Then  she  consented  to 
recognize  him.  "He'll  no  be  coming  here,  he  canna 
be;  it's  no  possible."  And  there  began  to  grow  upon 
her  a  subdued  choking  suspense.  He  was  coming;  his 
hesitations  had  quite  ceased,  his  step  grew  firm  and 
swift;  no  doubt  remained;  and  the  question  loomed  up 
before  her  instant :  what  was  she  to  do  ?  It  was  all 
very  well  to  say  that  her  brother  was  a  laird  himself;  it 
was  all  very  well  to  speak  of  casual  intermarriages  and 
to  count  cousinship,  like  Auntie  Kirstie.  The  difference 
in  their  social  station  was  trenchant;  propriety,  pru- 
dence, all  that  she  had  ever  learned,  all  that  she  knew, 
bade  her  flee.  But  on  the  other  hand  the  cup  of  life 
now  offered  to  her  was  too  enchanting.  For  one  mo- 
ment, she  saw  the  question  clearly,  and  definitely  made 
her  choice.  She  stood  up  and  showed  herself  an  in- 
stant in  the  gap  relieved  upon  the  sky  line;  and  the 
next,  fled  trembling  and  sat  down  glowing  with  excite- 
ment on  the  Weaver's  stone.  She  shut  her  eyes,  seek- 
ing, praying  for  composure.  Her  hand  shook  in  her 
lap,  and  her  mind  was  full  of  incongruous  and  futile 
speeches.  What  was  there  to  make  a  work  about  r* 
She  could  take  care  of  herself,  she  supposed!    There 

105 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

was  no  harm  in  seeing  the  laird.  It  was  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen.  She  would  mark  a  proper  distance 
to  him  once  and  for  all.  Gradually  the  wheels  of  her 
nature  ceased  to  go  round  so  madly,  and  she  sat  in  pas- 
sive expectation,  a  quiet,  solitary  figure  in  the  midst  of 
the  grey  moss.  I  have  said  she  was  no  hypocrite,  but 
here  I  am  at  fault.  She  never  admitted  to  herself  that 
she  had  come  up  the  hill  to  look  for  Archie.  And  per- 
haps after  all  she  did  not  know,  perhaps  came  as  a  stone 
falls.  For  the  steps  of  love  in  the  young,  and  especially 
in  girls,  are  instinctive  and  unconscious. 

In  the  meantime  Archie  was  drawing  rapidly  near, 
and  he  at  least  was  consciously  seeking  her  neighbour- 
hood. The  afternoon  had  turned  to  ashes  in  his  mouth ; 
the  memory  of  the  girl  had  kept  him  from  reading  and 
drawn  him  as  with  cords;  and  at  last,  as  the  cool  of 
the  evening  began  to  come  on,  he  had  taken  his  hat  and 
set  forth,  with  a  smothered  ejaculation,  by  the  moor 
path  to  Cauldstaneslap.  He  had  no  hope  to  find  her;  he 
took  the  offchance  without  expectation  of  result  and  to 
relieve  his  uneasiness.  The  greater  was  his  surprise,  as 
he  surmounted  the  slope  and  came  into  the  hollow  of 
the  Deil's  Hags,  to  see  there,  like  an  answer  to  his 
wishes,  the  little  womanly  figure  in  the  grey  dress  and 
the  pink  kerchief  sitting  little,  and  low,  and  lost,  and 
acutely  solitary,  in  these  desolate  surroundings  and  on 
the  weather-beaten  stone  of  the  dead  weaver.  Those 
things  that  still  smacked  of  winter  were  all  rusty  about 
her,  and  those  things  that  already  relished  of  the  spring 
had  put  forth  the  tender  and  lively  colours  of  the  season. 
Even  in  the  unchanging  face  of  the  death-stone  changes 
were  to  be  remarked;  and  in  the  channeled-lettering, 

io6 


A   LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

the  moss  began  to  renew  itself  in  jewels  of  green.  By 
an  after-thought  that  was  a  stroke  of  art,  she  had  turned 
up  over  her  head  the  back  of  the  kerchief;  so  that  it  now 
framed  becomingly  her  vivacious  and  yet  pensive  face. 
Her  feet  were  gathered  under  her  on  the  one  side,  and 
she  leaned  on  her  bare  arm,  which  showed  out  strong 
and  round,  tapered  to  a  slim  wrist,  and  shimmered  in 
the  fading  light. 

Young  Hermiston  was  struck  with  a  certain  chill.  He 
was  reminded  that  he  now  dealt  in  serious  matters  of 
life  and  death.  This  was  a  grown  woman  he  was  ap- 
proaching, endowed  with  her  mysterious  potencies  and 
attractions,  the  treasury  of  the  continued  race,  and  he 
was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  average  of  his  sex 
and  age.  He  had  a  certain  delicacy  which  had  preserved 
him  hitherto  unspotted,  and  which  (had  either  of  them 
guessed  it)  made  him  a  more  dangerous  companion 
when  his  heart  should  be  really  stirred.  His  throat  was 
dry  as  he  came  near ;  but  the  appealing  sweetness  of  her 
smile  stood  between  them  like  a  guardian  angel. 

For  she  turned  to  him  and  smiled,  though  without 
rising.  There  was  a  shade  in  this  cavalier  greeting  that 
neither  of  them  perceived;  neither  he,  who  simply 
thought  it  gracious  and  charming  as  herself;  nor  yet  she, 
who  did  not  observe  (quick  as  she  was)  the  difference 
between  rising  to  meet  the  laird  and  remaining  seated 
to  receive  the  expected  admirer. 

"Are  ye  stepping  west,  Hermiston.?"  said  she,  giv- 
ing him  his  territorial  name  after  the  fashion  of  the  coun- 
try-side. 

*'I  was,"  said  he  a  little  hoarsely,  **but  I  think  I  will 
be  about  the  end  of  my  stroll  now.     Are  you  like  me, 

107 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

Miss  Christina  ?  the  house  would  not  hold  me.  I  came 
here  seeking  air." 

He  took  his  seat  at  the  other  end  of  the  tombstone 
and  studied  her,  wondering  what  was  she.  There  was 
infinite  import  in  the  question  alike  for  her  and  him. 

"Ay,"  she  said.  "I  couldna  bear  the  roof  either. 
It's  a  habit  of  mine  to  come  up  here  about  the  gloaming 
when  it's  quaiet  and  caller." 

**  It  was  a  habit  of  my  mother's  also,"  he  said  gravely. 
The  recollection  half-startled  him  as  he  expressed  it. 
He  looked  around.  "  I  have  scarce  been  here  since.  It's 
peaceful,"  he  said,  with  a  long  breath. 

*Mt's  no  like  Glasgow,"  she  replied.  "A  weary 
place,  yon  Glasgow!  But  what  a  day  have  I  had  for 
my  hame-coming,  and  what  a  bonny  evening!  " 

**  Indeed,  it  was  a  wonderful  day,"  said  Archie.  "  I 
think  I  will  remember  it  years  and  years  until  I  come  to 
die.  On  days  like  this  —  I  do  not  know  if  you  feel  as  I 
do  —  but  everything  appears  so  brief,  and  fragile,  and 
exquisite,  that  I  am  afraid  to  touch  life.  We  are  here 
for  so  short  a  time;  and  all  the  old  people  before  us  — 
Rutherfords  of  Hermiston,  Elliotts  of  the  Cauldstaneslap 
—  that  were  here  but  a  while  since,  riding  about  and 
keeping  up  a  great  noise  in  this  quiet  corner  —  making 
love  too,  and  marrying  —  why,  where  are  they  now.^ 
It's  deadly  commonplace,  but  after  all,  the  common- 
places are  the  great  poetic  truths." 

He  was  sounding  her,  semi-consciously,  to  see  if  she 
could  understand  him;  to  learn  if  she  were  only  an  ani- 
mal the  colour  of  flowers,  or  had  a  soul  in  her  to  keep 
her  sweet.  She,  on  her  part,  her  means  well  in  hand, 
watched,  womanlike,  for  any  opportunity  to  shine,  to 

108 


A  LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

abound  in  his  humour,  whatever  that  might  be.  The 
dramatic  artist,  that  lies  dormant  or  only  half-awake  in 
most  human  beings,  had  in  her  sprung  to  his  feet  in  a 
divine  fury,  and  chance  had  served  her  well.  She 
looked  upon  him  with  a  subdued  twilight  look  that  be- 
came the  hour  of  the  day  and  the  train  of  thought ;  earn- 
estness shone  through  her  like  stars  in  the  purple  west; 
and  from  the  great  but  controlled  upheaval  of  her  whole 
nature  there  passed  into  her  voice,  and  rang  in  her 
lightest  words,  a  thrill  of  emotion. 

''Have  you  mind  of  Dand's  song.?"  she  answered. 
**I  think  he'll  have  been  trying  to  say  what  you  have 
been  thinking." 

''No,  I  never  heard  it,"  he  said,  " Repeat  it  to  me, 
can  you.^" 

"It's  nothing  wanting  the  tune,"  said  Kirstie. 

"Then  sing  it  me,"  said  he. 

"On  the  Lord's  Day?  That  would  never  do,  Mr. 
Weir!" 

"1  am  afraid  I  am  not  so  strict  a  keeper  of  the  Sab- 
bath, and  there  is  no  one  in  this  place  to  hear  us,  un- 
less the  poor  old  ancient  under  the  stone." 

"No  that  I'm  thinking  that  really,"  she  said.  "  By 
my  way  of  thinking,  it's  just  as  serious  as  a  psalm. 
Will  I  sooth  it  to  ye,  then  ?" 

"If  you  please,"  said  he,  and,  drawing  near  to  her 
on  the  tombstone,  prepared  to  listen. 

She  sat  up  as  if  to  sing.  "I'll  only  can  sooth  it  to 
ye,"  she  explained.  "I  wouldna  like  to  sing  out  loud 
on  the  Sabbath.  I  think  the  birds  would  carry  news 
of  it  to  Gilbert,"  and  she  smiled.  "It's  about  the  El- 
liotts," she  continued,  "and  I  think  there's  few  bonnier 

109 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

bits  in  the  book-poets,  though  Dand  has  never  got 
printed  yet." 

And  she  began,  in  the  low,  clear  tones  of  her  half- 
voice,  now  sinking  almost  to  a  whisper,  now  rising  to 
a  particular  note  which  was  her  best,  and  which  Archie 
learned  to  wait  for  with  growing  emotion :  — 

O  they  rade  in  the  rain,  in  the  days  that  are  gane, 

In  the  rain  and  the  wind  and  the  lave, 
They  shoutit  in  the  ha'  and  they  routit  on  the  hill, 

But  they're  a'  quaitit  noo  in  the  grave. 
Auld,  auld  Elliotts,  clay-cauld  Elliotts,  dour,  bauld  Elliotts  of  auld! 

All  the  time  she  sang  she  looked  steadfastly  before 
her,  her  knees  straight,  her  hands  upon  her  knee,  her 
head  cast  back  and  up.  The  expression  was  admirable 
throughout,  for  had  she  not  learned  it  from  the  lips  and 
under  the  criticism  of  the  author  ?  When  it  was  done, 
she  turned  upon  Archie  a  face  softly  bright,  and  eyes 
gently  suffused  and  shining  in  the  twilight,  and  his 
heart  rose  and  went  out  to  her  with  boundless  pity  and 
sympathy.  His  question  was  answered.  She  was  a 
human  being  tuned  to  a  sense  of  the  tragedy  of  life; 
there  were  pathos  and  music  and  a  great  heart  in  the 
girl. 

He  arose  instinctively,  she  also;  for  she  saw  she  had 
gained  a  point,  and  scored  the  impression  deeper,  and 
she  had  wit  enough  left  to  flee  upon  a  victory.  They 
were  but  commonplaces  that  remained  to  be  exchanged, 
but  the  low,  moved  voices  in  which  they  passed  made 
them  sacred  in  the  memory.  In  the  falling  greyness  of 
the  evening  he  watched  her  figure  winding  through 

no 


A  LEAF   FROM  CHRISTINA'S   PSALM-BOOK 

the  morass,  saw  it  turn  a  last  time  and  wave  a  hand, 
and  then  pass  through  the  Slap ;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  something  went  along  with  her  out  of  the  deepest 
of  his  heart.  And  something  surely  had  come,  and  come 
to  dwell  there.  He  had  retained  from  childhood  a  pic- 
ture, now  half-obliterated  by  the  passage  of  time  and  the 
multitude  of  fresh  impressions,  of  his  mother  telling  him, 
with  the  fluttered  earnestness  of  her  voice,  and  often  with 
dropping  tears,  the  tale  of  the  **  Praying  Weaver,"  on 
the  very  scene  of  his  brief  tragedy  and  long  repose.  And 
now  there  was  a  companion  piece;  and  he  beheld,  and 
he  should  behold  forever,  Christina  perched  on  the  same 
tomb,  in  the  grey  colours  of  the  evening,  gracious, 
dainty,  perfect  as  a  flower,  and  she  also  singing  — 

Of  old,  unhappy  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago, 

—  of  their  common  ancestors  now  dead,  of  their  rude 
wars  composed,  their  weapons  buried  with  them,  and 
of  these  strange  changelings,  their  descendants,  who 
lingered  a  little  in  their  places,  and  would  soon  be  gone 
also,  and  perhaps  sung  of  by  others  at  the  gloaming 
hour.  By  one  of  the  unconscious  arts  of  tenderness 
the  two  women  were  enshrined  together  in  his  mem- 
ory. Tears,  in  that  hour  of  sensibility,  came  into  his 
eyes  indifferently  at  the  thought  of  either,  and  the  girl, 
from  being  something  merely  bright  and  shapely,  was 
caught  up  into  the  zone  of  things  serious  as  life  and 
death  and  his  dead  mother.  So  that  in  all  ways  and  on 
either  side.  Fate  played  his  game  artfully  with  this  poor 
pair  of  children.     The  generations  were  prepared,  the 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

pangs  were  made  ready,  before  the  curtain  rose  on  the 
dark  drama. 

In  the  same  moment  of  time  that  she  disappeared 
from  Archie,  there  opened  before  Kirstie's  eyes  the  cup- 
like hollow  in  which  the  farm  lay.  She  saw,  some  five 
hundred  feet  below  her,  the  house  making  itself  bright 
with  candles,  and  this  was  a  broad  hint  to  her  to  hurry. 
For  they  were  only  kindled  on  a  Sabbath  night  with  a 
view  to  that  family  worship  which  rounded  in  the  in- 
comparable tedium  of  the  day  and  brought  on  the  re- 
laxation of  supper.  Already  she  knew  that  Robert 
must  be  within-sides  at  the  head  of  the  table,  "  waling 
the  portions;"  for  it  was  Robert  in  his  quality  of  fam- 
ily priest  and  judge,  not  the  gifted  Gilbert,  who  offici- 
ated. She  made  good  time  accordingly  down  the  steep 
ascent,  and  came  up  to  the  door  panting  as  the  three 
younger  brothers,  all  roused  at  last  from  slumber,  stood 
together  in  the  cool  and  the  dark  of  the  evening  with  a 
fry  of  nephews  and  nieces  about  them,  chatting  and 
awaiting  the  expected  signal.  She  stood  back;  she 
had  no  mind  to  direct  attention  to  her  late  arrival  or  to 
her  labouring  breath. 

**  Kirstie,  ye  have  shaved  it  this  time,  my  lass,"  said 
Clem.     **  Whaur  were  ye?" 

**  O,  just  taking  a  dander  by  mysel',"  said  Kirstie. 

And  the  talk  continued  on  the  subject  of  the  Ameri- 
can war,  without  further  reference  to  the  truant  who 
stood  by  them  in  the  covert  of  the  dusk,  thrilling  with 
happiness  and  the  sense  of  guilt. 

The  signal  was  given,  and  the  brothers  began  to  go 
in  one  after  another,  amid  the  jostle  and  throng  of  Hob's 
children. 

112 


A   LEAF   FROM   CHRISTINA'S  PSALM-BOOK 

Only  Dandie,  waiting  till  the  last,  caught  Kirstie  by 
the  arm.  **  When  did  ye  begin  to  dander  in  pink 
hosen,  Mistress  Elliott?"  he  whispered  slyly. 

She  looked  down;  she  was  one  blush.  'M  maun 
have  forgotten  to  change  them,"  said  she;  and  went  in 
to  prayers  in  her  turn  with  a  troubled  mind,  between 
anxiety  as  to  whether  Dand  should  have  observed  her 
yellow  stockings  at  church,  and  should  thus  detect  her 
in  a  palpable  falsehood,  and  shame  that  she  had  already 
made  good  his  prophecy. 

She  remembered  the  words  of  it,  how  it  was  to  be 
when  she  had  gotten  a  jo,  and  that  that  would  be  for 
good  and  evil.  '*  Will  I  have  gotten  my  jo  now  ?  "  she 
thought  with  a  secret  rapture. 

And  all  through  prayers,  where  it  was  her  principal 
business  to  conceal  the  pink  stockings  from  the  eyes  of 
the  indifferent  Mrs.  Hob  —  and  all  through  supper,  as 
she  made  a  feint  of  eating,  and  sat  at  the  table  radiant 
and  constrained  —  and  again  when  she  had  left  them 
and  come  into  her  chamber,  and  was  alone  with  her 
sleeping  niece,  and  could  at  last  lay  aside  the  armour  of 
society  —  the  same  words  sounded  within  her,  the  same 
profound  note  of  happiness,  of  a  world  all  changed  and 
renewed,  of  a  day  that  had  been  passed  in  Paradise,  and 
of  a  night  that  was  to  be  heaven  opened.  All  night 
she  seemed  to  be  conveyed  smoothly  upon  a  shallow 
stream  of  sleep  and  waking,  and  through  the  bowers  of 
Beulah ;  all  night  she  cherished  to  her  heart  that  exquisite 
hope;  and  if,  towards  morning,  she  forgot  it  awhile  in 
a  more  profound  unconsciousness,  it  was  to  catch  again 
the  rainbow  thought  with  her  first  moment  of  awaking. 


"3 


CHAPTER  VII 

ENTER   MEPHISTOPHELES 

Two  days  later  a  gig  from  Crossmichael  deposited 
Frank  Innes  at  the  doors  of  Hermiston.  Once  in  a  way, 
during  the  past  winter,  Archie,  in  some  acute  phase  of 
boredom,  had  written  him  a  letter.  It  had  contained 
something  in  the  nature  of  an  invitation,  or  a  reference 
to  an  invitation  —  precisely  what,  neither  of  them  now 
remembered.  When  Innes  had  received  it,  there  had 
been  nothing  further  from  his  mind  than  to  bury  him- 
self in  the  moors  with  Archie;  but  not  even  the  most 
acute  political  heads  are  guided  through  the  steps  of  life 
with  unerring  directness.  That  would  require  a  gift  of 
prophecy  which  has  been  denied  to  man.  For  instance, 
who  could  have  imagined  that,  not  a  month  after  he  had 
received  the  letter,  and  turned  it  into  mockery,  and  put 
off  answering  it,  and  in  the  end  lost  it,  misfortunes  of  a 
gloomy  cast  should  begin  to  thicken  over  Frank's 
career  ?  His  case  may  be  briefly  stated.  His  father,  a 
small  Morayshire  laird  with  a  large  family,  became  re- 
calcitrant and  cut  off  the  supplies;  he  had  fitted  himself 
out  with  the  beginnings  of  quite  a  good  law  library, 
which,  upon  some  sudden  losses  on  the  turf,  he  had  been 
obliged  to  sell  before  they  were  paid  for;  and  his  book- 
seller, hearing  some  rumour  of  the  event,  took  out  a 

114 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

warrant  for  his  arrest.  Innes  had  early  word  of  it,  and 
was  able  to  take  precautions.  In  this  immediate  wel- 
ter of  his  affairs,  with  an  unpleasant  charge  hanging 
over  him,  he  had  judged  it  the  part  of  prudence  to  be 
off  instantly,  had  written  a  fervid  letter  to  his  father  at 
Inverauld,  and  put  himself  in  the  coach  for  Crossmichael. 
Any  port  in  a  storm !  He  was  manfully  turning  his  back 
on  the  Parliament  House  and  its  gay  babble,  on  porter 
and  oysters,  the  racecourse  and  the  ring;  and  manfully 
prepared,  until  these  clouds  should  have  blown  by,  to 
share  a  living  grave  with  Archie  Weir  at  Hermiston. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  was  no  less  surprised  to  be  go- 
ing than  Archie  was  to  see  him  come;  and  he  carried 
off  his  wonder  with  an  infinitely  better  grace. 

"Well,  here  I  am!"  said  he,  as  he  alighted.  *'Py- 
lades  has  come  to  Orestes  at  last.  By  the  way,  did  you 
get  my  answer?  No?  How  very  provoking!  Well, 
here  I  am  to  answer  for  myself,  and  that's  better  still." 

*'I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  of  course,"  said  Archie. 
'M  make  you  heartily  welcome,  of  course.  But  you 
surely  have  not  come  to  stay,  with  the  courts  still  sit- 
ting; is  that  not  most  unwise?" 

**Damn  the  courts!"  says  Frank.  ''What  are  the 
courts  to  friendship  and  a  little  fishing  ?  " 

And  so  it  was  agreed  that  he  was  to  stay,  with  no 
term  to  the  visit  but  the  term  which  he  had  privily  set 
to  it  himself — the  day,  namely,  when  his  father  should 
have  come  down  with  the  dust,  and  he  should  be  able 
to  pacify  the  bookseller.  On  such  vague  conditions 
there  began  for  these  two  young  men  (who  were  not 
even  friends)  a  life  of  great  familiarity  and,  as  the  days 
grew  on,  less  and  less  intimacy.     They  were  together 

115 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

at  meal  times,  together  o'  nights  when  the  hour  had 
come  for  whisky  toddy;  but  it  might  have  been  noticed 
(had  there  been  anyone  to  pay  heed)  that  they  were 
rarely  so  much  together  by  day.  Archie  had  Hermiston 
to  attend  to,  multifarious  activities  in  the  hills,  in  which 
he  did  not  require,  and  had  even  refused,  Frank's  escort. 
He  would  be  off  sometimes  in  the  morning  and  leave 
only  a  note  on  the  breakfast  table  to  announce  the  fact; 
and  sometimes,  with  no  notice  at  all,  he  would  not  re- 
turn for  dinner  until  the  hour  was  long  past.  Innes 
groaned  under  these  desertions;  it  required  all  his  phil- 
osophy to  sit  down  to  a  solitary  breakfast  with  compo- 
sure, and  all  his  unaffected  good-nature  to  be  able  to 
greet  Archie  with  friendliness  on  the  more  rare  occa- 
sions when  he  came  home  late  for  dinner. 

'*!  wonder  what  on  earth  he  finds  to  do,  Mrs.  Elli- 
ott ?  "  said  he  one  morning,  after  he  had  just  read  the 
hasty  billet  and  sat  down  to  table. 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  business,  sir,"  replied  the  house- 
keeper dryly,  measuring  his  distance  off  to  him  by  an 
indicated  curtsey. 

**  But  I  can't  imagine  what  business!  "  he  reiterated. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  his  business,"  retorted  the  aus- 
tere Kirstie. 

He  turned  to  her  with  that  happy  brightness  that 
made  the  charm  of  his  disposition,  and  broke  into  a  peal 
of  healthy  and  natural  laughter. 

"  Well  played,  Mrs.  Elliott!  "  he  cried,  and  the  house- 
keeper's face  relaxed  into  the  shadow  of  an  iron  smile. 
**Well  played  indeed!"  said  he.  "But  you  must  not 
be  making  a  stranger  of  me  like  that.  Why,  Archie  and 
1  were  at  the  High  School  together,  and  we've  been  to 

ii6 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

college  together,  and  we  were  going  to  the  Bar  to- 
gether, when  —  you  know!  Dear,  dear  me  I  what  a 
pity  that  was!  A  life  spoiled,  a  fine  young  fellow  as 
good  as  buried  here  in  the  wilderness  with  rustics;  and 
all  for  what  ?  A  frolic,  silly,  if  you  like,  but  no  more. 
God,  how  good  your  scones  are,  Mrs.  Elliott!" 

"They're  no  mines,  it  was  the  lassie  made  them," 
said  Kirstie;  *'and,  saving  your  presence,  there's  little 
sense  in  taking  the  Lord'aname  in  vain  about  idle  vivers 
that  you  fill  your  kyte  wi'." 

**I  daresay  you're  perfectly  right,  ma'am,"  quoth  the 
imperturbable  Frank.  **But,  as  I  was  saying,  this  is  a 
pitiable  business,  this  about  poor  Archie;  and  you  and  I 
might  do  worse  than  put  our  heads  together,  like  a 
couple  of  sensible  people,  and  bring  it  to  an  end.  Let 
me  tell  you,  ma'am,  that  Archie  is  really  quite  a  promis- 
ing young  man,  and  in  my  opinion  he  would  do  well 
at  the  Bar.  As  for  his  father,  no  one  can  deny  his  abil- 
ity, and  I  don't  fancy  anyone  would  care  to  deny  that 
he  has  the  deil's  own  temper  — " 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Innes,  I  think  the  lass  is 
crying  on  me,"  said  Kirstie,  and  flounced  from  the 
room. 

"The  damned,  cross-grained,  old  broom-stick!" 
ejaculated  Innes. 

In  the  meantime,  Kirstie  had  escaped  into  the  kitchen, 
and  before  her  vassal  gave  vent  to  her  feelings. 

"  Here,  ettercap!  Ye'll  have  to  wait  on  yon  Innes! 
I  canna  haud  myself  in.  '  Puir  Erchie'!  I'd  *  puir  Er- 
chie'  him,  if  I  had  my  way!  And  Hermiston  with  the 
deil's  ain  temper!  God,  let  him  take  Hermiston's  scones 
out  of  his  mouth  first.     There's  no  a  hair  on  ayther  o' 

117 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

the  Weirs  that  hasna  mair  spunk  and  dirdum  to  it  than 
what  he  has  in  his  hale  dwaibly  body!  Settin'  up  his 
snash  to  me!  Let  him  gang  to  the  black  toon  where 
he's  mebbe  wantit  —  birling  in  a  curricle — wi'  pimatum 
on  his  heid  —  making  a  mess  o'  himsel'  wi'  nesty  hiz- 
zies  —  a  fair  disgrace!"  It  was  impossible  to  hear 
without  admiration  Kirstie's  graduated  disgust,  as  she 
brought  forth,  one  after  another,  these  somewhat  base- 
less charges.  Then  she  remembered  her  immediate 
purpose,  and  turned  again  on  her  fascinated  auditor. 
**  Do  ye  no  hear  me,  tawpie  ?  Do  ye  no  hear  what  I'm 
tellin'  ye  ?  Will  I  have  to  shoo  ye  in  to  him  ?  If  I 
come  to  attend  to  ye,  mistress!  "  And  the  maid  fled  the 
kitchen,  which  had  become  practically  dangerous,  to 
attend  on  Innes'  wants  in  the  front  parlour. 

Tantcene  irce?  Has  the  reader  perceived  the  rea- 
son }  Since  Frank's  coming  there  were  no  more  hours 
of  gossip  over  the  supper  tray!  All  his  blandishments 
were  in  vain ;  he  had  started  handicapped  on  the  race 
for  Mrs.  Elliott's  favour. 

But  it  was  a  strange  thing  how  misfortune  dogged 
him  in  his  efforts  to  be  genial.  I  must  guard  the  reader 
against  accepting  Kirstie's  epithets  as  evidence;  she 
was  more  concerned  for  their  vigour  than  for  their  ac- 
curacy. Dwaibly,  for  instance;  nothing  could  be  more 
calumnious.  Frank  was  the  very  picture  of  good  looks, 
good  humour,  and  manly  youth.  He  had  bright  eyes 
with  a  sparkle  and  a  dance  to  them,  curly  hair,  a  charm- 
ing smile,  brilliant  teeth,  an  admirable  carriage  of  the 
head,  the  look  of  a  gentleman,  the  address  of  one  ac- 
customed to  please  at  first  sight  and  to  improve  the  im- 
pression.  And  with  all  these  advantages,  he  failed  with 

ii8 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

everyone  about  Hermiston;  with  the  silent  shepherd, 
with  the  obsequious  grieve,  with  the  groom  who  was 
also  the  ploughman,  with  the  gardener  and  the  garden- 
er's sister — a  pious,  down-hearted  woman  with  a  shawl 
over  her  ears  —  he  failed  equally  and  flatly.  They  did  not 
like  him,  and  they  showed  it.  The  little  maid,  indeed, 
was  an  exception ;  she  admired  him  devoutly,  probably 
dreamed  of  him  in  her  private  hours;  but  she  was  ac- 
customed to  play  the  part  of  silent  auditor  to  Kirstie's 
tirades  and  silent  recipient  of  Kirstie's  buffets,  and  she 
had  learned  not  only  to  be  a  very  capable  girl  of  her 
years,  but  a  very  secret  and  prudent  one  besides.  Frank 
was  thus  conscious  that  he  had  one  ally  and  sympathiser 
in  the  midst  of  that  general  union  of  disfavour  that  sur- 
rounded, watched,  and  waited  on  him  in  the  house  of 
Hermiston;  but  he  had  little  comfort  or  society  from 
that  alliance,  and  the  demure  little  maid  (twelve  on  her 
last  birthday)  preserved  her  own  counsel,  and  tripped 
on  his  service,  brisk,  dumbly  responsive,  but  inexorably 
unconversational.  For  the  others,  they  were  beyond 
hope  and  beyond  endurance.  Never  had  a  young 
Apollo  been  cast  among  such  rustic  barbarians.  But 
perhaps  the  cause  of  his  ill-success  lay  in  one  trait 
which  was  habitual  and  unconscious  with  him,  yet 
diagnostic  of  the  man.  It  was  his  practice  to  approach 
any  one  person  at  the  expense  of  someone  else.  He 
offered  you  an  alliance  against  the  someone  else;  he 
flattered  you  by  slighting  him ;  you  were  drawn  into  a 
small  intrigue  against  him  before  you  knew  how. 
Wonderful  are  the  virtues  of  this  process  generally;  but 
Frank's  mistake  was  in  the  choice  of  the  someone  else. 
He  was  not  politic  in  that;  he  listened  to  the  voice  of 

ri9 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

irritation.  Archie  had  offended  him  at  first  by  what  he 
had  felt  to  be  rather  a  dry  reception;  had  offended  him 
since  by  his  frequent  absences.  He  was  besides  the 
one  figure  continually  present  in  Frank's  eye;  and  it 
was  to  his  immediate  dependents  that  Frank  could  offer 
the  snare  of  his  sympathy.  Now  the  truth  is  that  the 
Weirs,  father  and  son,  were  surrounded  by  a  posse  of 
strenuous  loyalists.  Of  my  lord  they  were  vastly  proud. 
It  was  a  distinction  in  itself  to  be  one  of  the  vassals  of 
the  "  Hanging  Judge,"  and  his  gross,  formidable  jovial- 
ity was  far  from  unpopular  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his 
home.  For  Archie  they  had,  one  and  all,  a  sensitive 
affection  and  respect  which  recoiled  from  a  word  of 
belittlement. 

Nor  was  Frank  more  successful  when  he  went  far- 
ther afield.  To  the  Four  Black  Brothers,  for  instance, 
he  was  antipathetic  in  the  highest  degree.  Hob  thought 
him  too  light,  Gib  too  profane.  Clem,  who  saw  him 
but  for  a  day  or  two  before  he  went  to  Glasgow, 
wanted  to  know  what  the  fule's  business  was,  and 
whether  he  meant  to  stay  here  all  session  time !  **  Yon's 
a  drone,"  he  pronounced.  As  for  Dand,  it  will  be 
enough  to  describe  their  first  meeting,  when  Frank  had 
been  whipping  a  river  and  the  rustic  celebrity  chanced 
to  come  along  the  path. 

"I'm  told  you  are  quite  a  poet,"  Frank  had  said. 

*'  Wha  tell  't  ye  that,  mannie  ?  "  had  been  the  uncon- 
ciliating  answer. 

**0,  everybody,"  says  Frank. 

*'God!  Here's  fame!"  said  the  sardonic  poet,  and 
he  had  passed  on  his  way. 

Come  to  think  of  it,  we  have  here  perhaps  a  truer 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

explanation  of  Frank's  failures.  Had  he  met  Mr.  Sher- 
iff Scott  he  could  have  turned  a  neater  compliment,  be- 
cause Mr.  Scott  would  have  been  a  friend  worth  mak- 
ing. Dand,  on  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  value  six- 
pence, and  he  showed  it  even  while  he  tried  to  flatter. 
Condescension  is  an  excellent  thing,  but  it  is  strange 
how  one-sided  the  pleasure  of  it  is!  He  who  goes 
fishing  among  the  Scots  peasantry  with  condescension 
for  a  bait  will  have  an  empty  basket  by  evening. 

In  proof  of  this  theory  Frank  made  a  great  success 
of  it  at  the  Crossmichael  Club,  to  which  Archie  took 
him  immediately  on  his  arrival;  his  own  last  appearance 
on  that  scene  of  gaiety.  Frank  was  made  welcome 
there  at  once,  continued  to  go  regularly,  and  had  at- 
tended a  meeting  (as  the  members  ever  after  loved  to 
tell)  on  the  evening  before  his  death.  Young  Hay  and 
young  Pringle  appeared  again.  There  was  another 
supper  at  Windielaws,  another  dinner  at  Driffel;  and  it 
resulted  in  Frank  being  taken  to  the  bosom  of  the 
county  people  as  unreservedly  as  he  had  been  repudi- 
ated by  the  country  folk.  He  occupied  Hermiston  after 
the  manner  of  an  invader  in  a  conquered  capital.  He 
was  perpetually  issuing  from  it,  as  from  a  base,  to  toddy 
parties,  fishing  parties,  and  dinner  parties,  to  which 
Archie  was  not  invited,  or  to  which  Archie  would  not 
go.  It  was  now  that  the  name  of  The  Recluse  became 
general  for  the  young  man.  Some  say  that  Innes  in- 
vented it;  Innes,  at  least,  spread  it  abroad. 

'* How's  all  with  your  Recluse  to-day?"  people 
would  ask. 

'*0,  reclusing  away!"  Innes  would  declare,  with 
his  bright  air  of  saying  something  witty;  and  immedi- 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

ately  interrupt  the  general  laughter  which  he  had  pro- 
voked much  more  by  his  air  than  his  words,  "Mind 
you,  it's  all  very  well  laughing,  but  I  'm  not  very  well 
pleased.  Poor  Archie  is  a  good  fellow,  an  excellent 
fellow,  a  fellow  I  always  liked.  I  think  it  small  of  him 
to  take  his  little  disgrace  so  hard  and  shut  himself  up. 
*  Grant  that  it  is  a  ridiculous  story,  painfully  ridiculous,' 
I  keep  telling  him.  *  Be  a  man!  Live  it  down,  man! ' 
But  not  he.  Of  course  it's  just  solitude,  and  shame, 
and  all  that.  But  I  confess  I  'm  beginning  to  fear  the 
result.  It  would  be  all  the  pities  in  the  world  if  a  really 
promising  fellow  like  Weir  was  to  end  ill.  I'm  seri- 
ously tempted  to  write  to  Lord  Hermiston,  and  put  it 
plainly  to  him." 

"I  would  if  I  were  you,"  some  of  his  auditors  would 
say,  shaking  the  head,  sitting  bewildered  and  confused 
at  this  new  view  of  the  matter,  so  deftly  indicated  by 
a  single  word.  "A  capital  idea!"  they  would  add, 
and  wonder  at  the  aplomb  and  position  of  this  young 
man,  who  talked  as  a  matter  of  course  of  writing  to 
Hermiston  and  correcting  him  upon  his  private  atfairs. 

And  Frank  would  proceed,  sweetly  confidential: 
**I  '11  give  you  an  idea,  now.  He  's  actually  sore 
about  the  way  that  I  'm  received  and  he's  left  out  in 
the  county  —  actually  jealous  and  sore.  I've  rallied 
him  and  I've  reasoned  with  him,  told  him  that  everyone 
was  most  kindly  inclined  towards  him,  told  him  even 
that  I  was  received  merely  because  I  was  his  guest. 
But  it's  no  use.  He  will  neither  accept  the  invitations 
he  gets,  nor  stop  brooding  about  the  ones  where  he's 
left  out.  What  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  the  wound's  ulcer- 
ating.    He  had  always  one  of  those  dark,  secret,  angry 

122 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

natures  —  a  little  underhand  and  plenty  of  bile  —  you 
know  the  sort.  He  must  have  inherited  it  from  the 
Weirs,  whom  I  suspect  to  have  been  a  worthy  family 
of  weavers  somewhere;  what's  the  cant  phrase! — sed- 
entary occupation.  It's  precisely  the  kind  of  character 
to  go  wrong  in  a  false  position  like  what  his  father's 
made  for  him,  or  he's  making  for  himself,  whichever 
you  like  to  call  it.  And  for  my  part,  I  think  it  a  dis- 
grace," Frank  would  say  generously. 

Presently  the  sorrow  and  anxiety  of  this  disinterested 
friend  took  shape.  He  began  in  private,  in  conversa- 
tions of  two,  to  talk  vaguely  of  bad  habits  and  lovr 
habits.  **  I  must  say  I'm  afraid  he's  going  wrong  alto- 
gether," he  would  say.  "V\\  tell  you  plainly,  and  be- 
tween ourselves,  I  scarcely  like  to  stay  there  any  longer; 
only,  man,  I'm  positively  afraid  to  leave  him  alone. 
You'll  see,  I  shall  be  blamed  for  it  later  on.  I'm  staying 
at  a  great  sacrifice.  I'm  hindering  my  chances  at  the 
Bar,  and  I  can't  blind  my  eyes  to  it.  And  what  I'm 
afraid  of  is  that  I'm  going  to  get  kicked  for  it  all  round 
before  all's  done.  You  see,  nobody  believes  in  friend- 
ship nowadays." 

"Well,  Innes,"  his  interlocutor  would  reply,  ''it's 
very  good  of  you,  I  must  say  that.  If  there's  any  blame 
going  you'll  always  be  sure  of  my  good  word,  for  one 
thing." 

"Well,"  Frank  would  continue,  "candidly,  I  don't 
say  it's  pleasant.  He  has  a  very  rough  way  with  him ; 
his  father's  son,  you  know.  I  don't  say  he's  rude  —  of 
course,  I  couldn't  be  expected  to  stand  that  —  but  he 
steers  very  near  the  wind.  No,  it's  not  pleasant;  but 
I  tell  ye,  man,  in  conscience  I  don't  think  it  would  be 

123 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

(air  to  leave  him.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  there's  any- 
thing actually  wrong.  What  I  say  is  that  I  don't  like 
the  looks  of  it,  man !  "  and  he  would  press  the  arm  of 
his  momentary  confidant. 

In  the  early  stages  I  am  persuaded  there  was  no 
malice.  He  talked  but  for  the  pleasure  of  airing  himself. 
He  was  essentially  glib,  as  becomes  the  young  advocate, 
and  essentially  careless  of  the  truth,  which  is  the  mark 
of  the  young  ass;  and  so  he  talked  at  random.  There 
was  no  particular  bias,  but  that  one  which  is  indige- 
nous and  universal,  to  flatter  himself  and  to  please  and 
interest  the  present  friend.  And  by  thus  milling  air  out 
of  his  mouth,  he  had  presently  built  up  a  presentation  of 
Archie  which  was  known  and  talked  of  in  all  corners 
of  the  county.  Wherever  there  was  a  residential 
house  and  a  walled  garden,  wherever  there  was  a 
dwarfish  castle  and  a  park,  wherever  a  quadruple  cot- 
tage by  the  ruins  of  a  peel-tower  showed  an  old  family 
going  down,  and  wherever  a  handsome  villa  with  a 
carriage  approach  and  a  shrubbery  marked  the  coming 
up  of  a  new  one —  probably  on  the  wheels  of  machinery 
—  Archie  began  to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  dark, 
perhaps  a  vicious  mystery,  and  the  future  developments 
of  his  career  to  be  looked  for  with  uneasiness  and  con- 
fidential whispering.  He  had  done  something  disgrace- 
ful, my  dear.  What,  was  not  precisely  known,  and 
that  good  kind  young  man,  Mr.  Innes,  did  his  best  to 
make  light  of  it.  But  there  it  was.  And  Mr.  Innes 
was  very  anxious  about  him  now;  he  was  really  un- 
easy, my  dear;  he  was  positively  wrecking  his  own 
prospects  because  he  dared  not  leave  him  alone.  How 
wholly  we  all  lie  at  the  mercy  of  a  single  prater,  not 

124 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

needfully  with  any  malign  purpose !  And  if  a  man  but 
talks  of  himself  in  the  right  spirit,  refers  to  his  virtuous 
actions  by  the  way,  and  never  applies  to  them  the  name 
of  virtue,  how  easily  his  evidence  is  accepted  in  the 
court  of  public  opinion. 

All  this  while,  however,  there  was  a  more  poisonous 
ferment  at  work  between  the  two  lads,  which  came  late 
indeed  to  the  surface,  but  had  modified  and  magnified 
their  dissensions  from  the  first.  To  an  idle,  shallow, 
easy-going  customer  like  Frank,  the  smell  of  a  mystery 
was  attractive.  It  gave  his  mind  something  to  play  with, 
like  a  new  toy  to  a  child;  and  it  took  him  on  the  weak 
side,  for  like  many  young  men  coming  to  the  Bar,  and 
before  they  have  been  tried  and  found  wanting,  he  flat- 
tered himself  he  was  a  fellow  of  unusual  quickness  and 
penetration.  They  knew  nothing  of  Sherlock  Holmes  in 
these  days,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  said  of  Talleyrand. 
And  if  you  could  have  caught  Frank  off  his  guard,  he 
would  have  confessed  with  a  smirk,  that,  if  he  resembled 
anyone,  it  was  the  Marquis  de  Talleyrand-Perigord.  It 
was  on  the  occasion  of  Archie's  first  absence  that  this 
interest  took  root.  It  was  vastly  deepened  when  Kirstie 
resented  his  curiosity  at  breakfast,  and  that  same  after- 
noon there  occurred  another  scene  which  clinched  the 
business.  He  was  fishing  Swingleburn,  Archie  accom- 
panying him,  when  the  latter  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Well,  good-bye,"  said  he.  *'  I  have  something  to 
do.     See  you  at  dinner." 

'*  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  cries  Frank.  "  Hold  on 
till  I  get  my  rod  up.  I'll  go  with  you;  I'm  sick  of  flog- 
ging this  ditch." 

And  he  began  to  reel  up  his  line. 
125 


WEIR   OF  HERMISTON 

Archie  stood  speechless.  He  took  a  long  while  to 
recover  his  wits  under  this  direct  attack;  but  by  the 
time  he  was  ready  with  his  answer,  and  the  angle  was 
almost  packed  up,  he  had  become  completely  Weir,  and 
the  hanging  face  gloomed  on  his  young  shoulders.  He 
spoke  with  a  laboured  composure,  a  laboured  kindness 
even;  but  a  child  could  see  that  his  mind  was  made  up. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  Innes;  I  don't  want  to  be  dis- 
agreeable, but  let  us  understand  one  another  from  the 
beginning.  When  I  want  your  company,  I'll  let  you 
know." 

*'0h!"  cries  Frank,  *'you  don't  want  my  company, 
don't  you.?" 

"  Apparently  not  just  now,"  replied  Archie.  "  I  even 
indicated  to  you  when  I  did,  if  you'll  remember  —  and 
that  was  at  dinner.  If  we  two  fellows  are  to  live  to- 
gether pleasantly  —  and  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should 
not  —  it  can  only  be  by  respecting  each  other's  privacy. 
If  we  begin  intruding  —  " 

"Oh,  come!  I'll  take  this  at  no  man's  hands.  Is  this 
the  way  you  treat  a  guest  and  an  old  friend  ? "  cried 
Innes. 

"Just  go  home  and  think  over  what  I  said  by  your- 
self," continued  Archie,  "whether  it's  reasonable,  or 
whether  it's  really  offensive  or  not;  and  let's  meet  at 
dinner  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  I'll  put  it  this 
way,  if  you  like  —  that  1  know  my  own  character,  that 
I'm  looking  forward  (with  great  pleasure,  I  assure  you) 
to  a  long  visit  from  you,  and  that  I'm  taking  precautions 
at  the  first.  I  see  the  thing  that  we  —  that  I,  if  you 
like  —  might  fall  out  upon,  and  I  step  in  and  obsto  prin- 
cipiis.     I  wager  you  five  pounds  you'll  end  by  seeing 

126 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

that  I  mean  friendliness,  and  I  assure  you,  Francie,  I  do," 
he  added,  relenting. 

Bursting  with  anger,  but  incapable  of  speech,  Innes 
shouldered  his  rod,  made  a  gesture  of  farewell,  and  strode 
off  down  the  burnside.  Archie  watched  him  go  with- 
out moving.  He  was  sorry,  but  quite  unashamed.  He 
hated  to  be  inhospitable,  but  in  one  thing  he  was  his 
father's  son.  He  had  a  strong  sense  that  his  house  was 
his  own  and  no  man  else's ;  and  to  lie  at  a  guest's  mercy 
was  what  he  refused.  He  hated  to  seem  harsh.  But 
that  was  Frank's  look-out.  If  Frank  had  been  com- 
monly discreet,  he  would  have  been  decently  courteous. 
And  there  was  another  consideration.  The  secret  he 
was  protecting  was  not  his  own  merely;  it  was  hers;  it 
belonged  to  that  inexpressible  she  who  was  fast  taking 
possession  of  his  soul,  and  whom  he  would  soon  have 
defended  at  the  cost  of  burning  cities.  By  the  time  he 
had  watched  Frank  as  far  as  the  Swingleburnfoot,  ap- 
pearing and  disappearing  in  the  tarnished  heather,  still 
stalking  at  a  fierce  gait  but  already  dwindled  in  the  dis- 
tance into  less  than  the  smallness  of  Lilliput,  he  could 
afford  to  smile  at  the  occurrence.  Either  Frank  would 
go,  and  that  would  be  a  relief — or  he  would  continue 
to  stay,  and  his  host  must  continue  to  endure  him.  And 
Archie  was  now  free  —  by  devious  paths,  behind  hillocks 
and  in  the  hollow  of  burns  —  to  make  for  the  trysting- 
place  where  Kirstie,  cried  about  by  the  curlew  and  the 
plover,  waited  and  burned  for  his  coming  by  the  Cove- 
nanter's stone. 

Innes  went  off  down-hill  in  a  passion  of  resentment, 
easy  to  be  understood,  but  which  yielded  progressively 
to  the  needs  of  his  situation.     He  cursed  Archie  for  a 

127 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

cold-hearted,  unfriendly,  rude  dog;  and  himself  still 
more  passionately  for  a  fool  in  having  come  to  Hermis- 
ton  when  he  might  have  sought  refuge  in  almost  any 
other  house  in  Scotland,  but  the  step  once  taken  was 
practically  irretrievable.  He  had  no  more  ready  money 
to  go  anywhere  else;  he  would  have  to  borrow  from 
Archie  the  next  club-night;  and  ill  as  he  thought  of  his 
host's  manners,  he  was  sure  of  his  practical  generosity. 
Frank's  resemblance  to  Talleyrand  strikes  me  as  imagi- 
nary; but  at  least  not  Talleyrand  himself  could  have 
more  obediently  taken  his  lesson  from  the  facts.  He 
met  Archie  at  dinner  without  resentment,  almost  with 
cordiality.  You  must  take  your  friends  as  you  find 
them,  he  would  have  said.  Archie  couldn't  help  being 
his  father's  son,  or  his  grandfather's,  the  hypothetical 
weaver's,  grandson.  The  son  of  a  hunks,  he  was  still 
a  hunks  at  heart,  incapable  of  true  generosity  and  con- 
sideration ;  but  he  had  other  qualities  with  which  Frank 
could  divert  himself  in  the  meanwhile,  and  to  enjoy 
which  it  was  necessary  that  Frank  should  keep  his 
temper. 

So  excellently  was  it  controlled  that  he  awoke  next 
morning  with  his  head  full  of  a  different,  though  a  cog- 
nate subject.  What  was  Archie's  little  game  ?  Why 
did  he  shun  Frank's  company  ?  What  was  he  keeping 
secret?  Was  he  keeping  tryst  with  somebody,  and 
was  it  a  woman  ?  It  would  be  a  good  joke  and  a  fair 
revenge  to  discover.  To  that  task  he  set  himself  with 
a  great  deal  of  patience,  which  might  have  surprised  his 
friends,  for  he  had  been  always  credited  not  with  pa- 
tience so  much  as  brilliancy;  and  little  by  little,  from 
one  point  to  another,  he  at  last  succeeded  in  piecing  out 

128 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

the  situation.  First  he  remarked  that,  although  Archie 
set  out  in  all  the  directions  of  the  compass,  he  always 
came  home  again  from  some  point  between  the  south 
and  west.  From  the  study  of  a  map,  and  in  consider- 
ation of  the  great  expanse  of  untenanted  moorland  run- 
ning in  that  direction  towards  the  sources  of  the  Clyde, 
he  laid  his  finger  on  Cauldstaneslap  and  two  other 
neighbouring  farms,  Kingsmuirs  and  Polintarf  But  it 
was  difficult  to  advance  farther.  With  his  rod  for  a 
pretext,  he  vainly  visited  each  of  them  in  turn ;  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  suspicious  about  this  trinity  of  moorland 
settlements.  He  would  have  tried  to  follow  Archie, 
had  it  been  the  least  possible,  but  the  nature  of  the  land 
precluded  the  idea.  He  did  the  next  best,  ensconced 
himself  in  a  quiet  corner,  and  pursued  his  movements 
with  a  telescope.  It  was  equally  in  vain,  and  he  soon 
wearied  of  his  futile  vigilance,  left  the  telescope  at  home, 
and  had  almost  given  the  matter  up  in  despair,  when, 
on  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  his  visit,  he  was  suddenly 
confronted  with  the  person  whom  he  sought.  The  first 
Sunday  Kirstie  had  managed  to  stay  away  from  kirk  on 
some  pretext  of  indisposition,  which  was  more  truly 
modesty;  the  pleasure  of  beholding  Archie  seeming  too 
sacred,  too  vivid  for  that  public  place.  On  the  two 
following  Frank  had  himself  been  absent  on  some  of 
his  excursions  among  the  neighbouring  families.  It 
was  not  until  the  fourth,  accordingly,  that  Frank  had 
occasion  to  set  eyes  on  the  enchantress.  With  the  first 
look,  all  hesitation  was  over.  She  came  with  the 
Cauldstaneslap  party;  then  she  lived  at  Cauldstaneslap. 
Here  was  Archie's  secret,  here  was  the  woman,  and 
more  than  that  —  though  I  have  need  here  of  every 

129 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

manageable  attenuation  of  language  —  with  the  first 
look,  he  had  already  entered  himself  as  rival.  It  was  a 
good  deal  in  pique,  it  was  a  little  in  revenge,  it  was 
much  in  genuine  admiration :  the  devil  may  decide  the 
proportions ;  I  cannot,  and  it  is  very  likely  that  Frank 
could  not. 

"Mighty  attractive  milkmaid,"  he  observed,  on  the 
way  home. 

'*Who?"  said  Archie. 

"O,  the  girl  you're  looking  at  —  aren't  you?  For- 
ward there  on  the  road.  She  came  attended  by  the 
rustic  bard ;  presumably,  therefore,  belongs  to  his  ex- 
alted family.  The  single  objection !  for  the  four  black 
brothers  are  awkward  customers.  If  anything  were  to 
go  wrong,  Gib  would  gibber,  and  Clem  would  prove 
inclement;  and  Dand  fly  in  danders,  and  Hob  blow  up 
in  gobbets.     It  would  be  a  Helliott  of  a  business ! " 

**  Very  humorous,  I  am  sure,"  said  Archie. 

'*Well,  I  am  trying  to  be  so,"  said  Frank.  "It's 
none  too  easy  in  this  place,  and  with  your  solemn  so- 
ciety, my  dear  fellow.  But  confess  that  the  milkmaid 
has  found  favour  in  your  eyes  or  resign  all  claim  to  b^ 
a  man  of  taste." 

**  It  is  no  matter,"  returned  Archie. 

But  the  other  continued  to  look  at  him,  steadily  and 
quizzically,  and  his  colour  slowly  rose  and  deepened 
under  the  glance,  until  not  impudence  itself  could  have 
denied  that  he  was  blushing.  And  at  this  Archie  lost 
some  of  his  control.  He  changed  his  stick  from  one 
hand  to  the  other,  and —  "  O,  for  God's  sake,  don't  be 
an  ass!"  he  cried. 

"Ass?  That's  the  retort  delicate  without  doubt," 
130 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

says  Frank.  *'  Beware  of  the  homespun  brothers,  dear. 
If  they  come  into  the  dance,  you'll  see  who's  an  ass. 
Think  now,  if  they  only  applied  (say)  a  quarter  as  much 
talent  as  I  have  applied  to  the  question  of  what  Mr. 
Archie  does  with  his  evening  hours,  and  why  he  is  so 
unaffectedly  nasty  when  the  subject's  touched  on  —  " 

**  You  are  touching  on  it  now,"  interrupted  Archie 
with  a  wince. 

*' Thank  you.  That  was  all  I  wanted,  an  articulate 
confession,"  said  Frank. 

"  I  beg  to  remind  you  —  "  began  Archie. 

But  he  was  interrupted  in  turn.  '*  My  dear  fellow, 
don't.  It's  quite  needless.  The  subject's  dead  and 
buried." 

And  Frank  began  to  talk  hastily  on  other  matters,  an 
art  in  which  he  was  an  adept,  for  it  was  his  gift  to  be 
fluent  on  anything  or  nothing.  But  although  Archie 
had  the  grace  or  the  timidity  to  suffer  him  to  rattle  on, 
he  was  by  no  means  done  with  the  subject.  When  he 
came  home  to  dinner,  he  was  greeted  with  a  sly  de- 
mand, how  things  were  looking  "  Cauldstaneslap 
ways. "  Frank  took  his  first  glass  of  port  out  after  din- 
ner to  the  toast  of  Kirstie,  and  later  in  the  evening  he 
returned  to  the  charge  again. 

**  I  say,  Weir,  you'll  excuse  me  for  returning  again  to 
this  affair.  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  wish  to 
beg  you  very  seriously  to  be  more  careful.  It's  not  a 
safe  business.     Not  safe,  my  boy,"  said  he. 

"What.? "said  Archie. 

**  Well,  it's  your  own  fault  if  I  must  put  a  name  on 
the  thing;  but  really,  as  a  friend,  I  cannot  stand  by  and 
see  you  rushing  head  down  into  these  dangers.     My 

i3» 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

dear  boy,"  said  he,  holding  up  a  warning  cigar,  "  con- 
sider what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

**  The  end  of  what  ?  "  —  Archie,  helpless  with  irrita- 
tion, persisted  in  this  dangerous  and  ungracious  guard. 

**  Well,  the  end  of  the  milkmaid;  or,  to  speak  more 
by  the  card,  the  end  of  Miss  Christina  Elliott  of  the 
Cauldstaneslap  ?" 

"  I  assure  you,"  Archie  broke  out,  "  this  is  all  a  fig- 
ment of  your  imagination.  There  is  nothing  to  be  said 
against  that  young  lady;  you  have  no  right  to  introduce 
her  name  into  the  conversation." 

*M'll  make  a  note  of  it,"  said  Frank.  "She  shall 
henceforth  be  nameless,  nameless,  nameless,  Grigalach! 
I  make  a  note  besides  of  your  valuable  testimony  to  her 
character.  I  only  want  to  look  at  this  thing  as  a  man 
of  the  world.  Admitted  she's  an  angel  —  but,  my  good 
fellow,  is  she  a  lady  ?  " 

This  was  torture  to  Archie.  *'  I  beg  your  pardon," 
he  said,  struggling  to  be  composed,  "  but  because  you 
have  wormed  yourself  into  my  confidence — " 

"O,  come!"  cried  Frank.  "Your  confidence?  It 
was  rosy  but  unconsenting.  Your  confidence,  indeed  ? 
Now,  look!  This  is  what  I  must  say.  Weir,  for  it  con- 
cerns your  safety  and  good  character,  and  therefore  my 
honour  as  your  friend.  You  say  I  wormed  myself  into 
your  confidence.  Wormed  is  good.  But  what  have  I 
done  ?  I  have  put  two  and  two  together,  just  as  the 
parish  will  be  doing  to-morrow,  and  the  whole  of 
Tweeddale  in  two  weeks,  and  the  black  brothers  — 
well,  I  won't  put  a  date  on  that;  it  will  be  a  dark  and 
stormy  morning.     Your  secret,  in  other  words,  is  poor 

133 


ENTER  MEPHISTOPHELES 

Poll's.  And  I  want  to  ask  of  you  as  a  friend  whether 
you  like  the  prospect?  There  are  two  horns  to  your 
dilemma,  and  1  must  say  for  myself  I  should  look  mighty 
ruefully  on  either.  Do  you  see  yourself  explaining  to 
the  Four  Black  Brothers  ?  or  do  you  see  yourself  pre- 
senting the  milkmaid  to  papa  as  the  future  lady  of 
Hermiston  ?    Do  you  ?    I  tell  you  plainly,  I  don't." 

Archie  rose.  "  I  will  hear  no  more  of  this,"  he  said 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

But  Frank  again  held  up  his  cigar.  ''Tell  me  one 
thing  first.  Tell  me  if  this  is  not  a  friend's  part  that  I 
am  playing  ?  " 

*M  believe  you  think  it  so,"  replied  Archie.  "  I  can 
go  as  far  as  that.  I  can  do  so  much  justice  to  your 
motives.  But  I  will  hear  no  more  of  it.  I  am  going  to 
bed." 

''That's  right,  Weir,"  said  Frank,  heartily.  "  Go  to 
bed  and  think  over  it;  and,  I  say,  man,  don't  forget  your 
prayers !  I  don't  often  do  the  moral  —  don't  go  in  for 
that  sort  of  thing  —  but  when  I  do  there's  one  thing 
sure,  that  I  mean  it." 

So  Archie  marched  off  to  bed,  and  Frank  sat  alone  by 
the  table  for  another  hour  or  so,  smilingto  himself  richly. 
There  was  nothing  vindictive  in  his  nature;  but,  if  re- 
venge came  in  his  way,  it  might  as  well  be  good,  and 
the  thought  of  Archie's  pillow  reflections  that  night  was 
indescribably  sweet  to  him.  He  felt  a  pleasant  sense 
of  power.  He  looked  down  on  Archie  as  on  a  very 
little  boy  whose  strings  he  pulled  —  as  on  a  horse  whom 
he  had  backed  and  bridled  by  sheer  power  of  intelli- 
gence, and  whom  he  might  ride  to  glory  or  the  grave 

^33 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

at  pleasure.  Which  was  it  to  be  ?  He  lingered  long, 
relishing  the  details  of  schemes  that  he  was  too  idle  to 
pursue.  Poor  cork  upon  a  torrent,  he  tasted  that  night 
the  sweets  of  omnipotence,  and  brooded  like  a  deity 
over  the  strands  of  that  intrigue  which  was  to  shatter 
him  before  the  summer  waned. 


«M 


CHAPTER  VIII 


A  NOCTURNAL  VISIT 


KiRSTiE  had  many  causes  of  distress.  More  and  more 
as  we  grow  old  —  and  yet  more  and  more  as  we  grow 
old  and  are  women,  frozen  by  the  fear  of  age  —  we 
come  to  rely  on  the  voice  as  the  single  outlet  of  the  soul. 
Only  thus,  in  the  curtailment  of  our  means,  can  we  re- 
lieve the  straitened  cry  of  the  passion  within  us; 
only  thus,  in  the  bitter  and  sensitive  shyness  of  advanc- 
ing years,  can  we  maintain  relations  with  those  vivacious 
figures  of  the  young  that  still  show  before  us,  and  tend 
daily  to  become  no  more  than  the  moving  wall-paper  of 
life.  Talk  is  the  last  link,  the  last  relation.  But  with  the 
end  of  the  conversation,  when  the  voice  stops  and  the 
bright  face  of  the  listener  is  turned  away,  solitude  falls 
again  on  the  bruised  heart.  Kirstie  had  lost  her  "  cannie 
hour  at  e'en";  she  could  no  more  wander  with  Archie,  a 
ghost,  if  you  will,  but  a  happy  ghost,  in  fields  Elysian. 
And  to  her  it  was  as  if  the  whole  world  had  fallen  si- 
lent; to  him,  but  an  unremarkable  change  of  amuse- 
ments. And  she  raged  to  know  it.  The  effervescency 
of  her  passionate  and  irritable  nature  rose  within  her  at 
times  to  bursting  point. 

This  is  the  price  paid  by  age  for  unseasonable  ardours 
of  feeling.  It  must  have  been  so  for  Kirstie  at  any  time 
when  the  occasion  chanced ;  but  it  so  fell  out  that  she 

135 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

was  deprived  of  this  delight  in  the  hour  when  she  had 
most  need  of  it,  when  she  had  most  to  say,  most  to  ask, 
and  when  she  trembled  to  recognize  her  sovereignty 
not  merely  in  abeyance  but  annulled.  For,  with  the 
clairvoyance  of  a  genuine  love,  she  had  pierced  the  mys- 
tery that  had  so  long  embarrassed  Frank.  She  was 
conscious,  even  before  it  was  carried  out,  even  on  that 
Sunday  night  when  it  began,  of  an  invasion  of  her  rights; 
and  a  voice  told  her  the  invader's  name.  Since  then, 
by  arts,  by  accident,  by  small  things  observed,  and  by 
the  general  drift  of  Archie's  humor,  she  had  passed  be- 
yond all  possibility  of  doubt.  With  a  sense  of  justice 
that  Lord  Hermiston  might  have  envied,  she  had  that 
day  in  church  considered  and  admitted  the  attractions 
of  the  younger  Kirstie;  and  with  the  profound  humanity 
and  sentimentality  of  her  nature,  she  had  recognized 
the  coming  of  fate.  Not  thus  would  she  have  chosen. 
She  had  seen,  in  imagination,  Archie  wedded  to  some 
tall,  powerful,  and  rosy  heroine  of  the  golden  locks, 
made  in  her  own  image,  for  whom  she  would  have 
strewed  the  bride-bed  with  delight;  and  now  she  could 
have  wept  to  see  the  ambition  falsified.  But  the  gods 
had  pronounced,  and  her  doom  was  otherwise. 

She  lay  tossing  in  bed  that  night,  besieged  with  fever- 
ish thoughts.  There  were  dangerous  matters  pending, 
a  battle  was  toward,  over  the  fate  of  which  she  hung 
in  jealousy,  sympathy,  fear,  and  alternate  loyalty  and 
disloyalty  to  either  side.  Now  she  was  re-incarnated 
in  her  niece,  and  now  in  Archie.  Now  she  saw,  through 
the  girl's  eyes,  the  youth  on  his  knees  to  her,  heard  his 
persuasive  instances  with  a  deadly  weakness,  and  re- 
ceived his  over-mastering  caresses.     Anon,  with  a  re- 

136 


A  NOCTURNAL  VISIT 

vulsion,  her  temper  raged  to  see  such  utmost  favours 
of  fortune  and  love  squandered  on  a  brat  of  a  girl,  one 
of  her  own  house,  using  her  own  name  —  a  deadly 
ingredient — and  that  "didnae  ken  her  ain  mind  an' 
was  as  black's  your  hat."  Now  she  trembled  lest  her 
deity  should  plead  in  vain,  loving  the  idea  of  success 
for  him  like  a  triumph  of  nature ;  anon,  with  returning 
loyalty  to  her  own  family  and  sex,  she  trembled  for 
Kirstie  and  the  credit  of  the  Elliotts.  And  again  she 
had  a  vision  of  herself,  the  day  over  for  her  old-world 
tales  and  local  gossip,  bidding  farewell  to  her  last  link 
with  life  and  brightness  and  love;  and  behind  and  be- 
yond, she  saw  but  the  blank  butt-end  where  she  must 
crawl  to  die.  Had  she  then  come  to  the  lees  ?  she,  so 
great,  so  beautiful,  with  a  heart  as  fresh  as  a  girl's  and 
strong  as  womanhood  ?  It  could  not  be,  and  yet  it 
was  so;  and  for  a  moment  her  bed  was  horrible  to  her 
as  the  sides  of  the  grave.  And  she  looked  forward 
over  a  waste  of  hours,  and  saw  herself  go  on  to  rage, 
and  tremble,  and  be  softened,  and  rage  again,  until  the 
day  came  and  the  labours  of  the  day  must  be  renewed. 
Suddenly  she  heard  feet  on  the  stairs  —  his  feet,  and 
soon  after  the  sound  of  a  window-sash  flung  open. 
She  sat  up  with  her  heart  beating.  He  had  gone  to  his 
room  alone,  and  he  had  not  gone  to  bed.  She  might 
again  have  one  of  her  night  cracks ;  and  at  the  entran- 
cing prospect,  a  change  came  over  her  mind;  with  the 
approach  of  this  hope  of  pleasure,  all  the  baser  metal 
became  immediately  obliterated  from  her  thoughts. 
She  rose,  all  woman,  and  all  the  best  of  woman,  ten- 
der, pitiful,  hating  the  wrong,  loyal  to  her  own  sex  — 
and  all  the  weakest  of  that  dear  miscellany,  nourishing, 

137 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

cherishing  next  her  soft  heart,  voicelessly  flattering, 
hopes  that  she  would  have  died  sooner  than  have  ac- 
knowledged. She  tore  off  her  nightcap,  and  her  hair 
fell  about  her  shoulders  in  profusion.  Undying  coquetry 
awoke.  By  the  faint  light  of  her  nocturnal  rush,  she 
stood  before  the  looking-glass,  carried  her  shapely 
arms  above  her  head,  and  gathered  up  the  treasures 
of  her  tresses.  She  was  never  backward  to  admire 
herself;  that  kind  of  modesty  was  a  stranger  to  her  na- 
ture; and  she  paused,  struck  with  a  pleased  wonder  at 
the  sight.  "Ye  daft  auld  wife!"  she  said,  answering 
a  thought  that  was  not;  and  she  blushed  with  the  inno- 
cent consciousness  of  a  child.  Hastily  she  did  up  the 
massive  and  shining  coils,  hastily  donned  a  wrapper, 
and  with  the  rush-light  in  her  hand,  stole  into  the  hall. 
Below  stairs  she  heard  the  clock  ticking  the  deliberate 
seconds,  and  Frank  jingling  with  the  decanters  in  the 
dining-room.  Aversion  rose  in  her,  bitter  and  mo- 
mentary. *'Nesty,  tippling  puggy!"  she  thought; 
and  the  next  moment  she  had  knocked  guardedly  at 
Archie's  door  and  was  bidden  enter. 

Archie  had  been  looking  out  into  the  ancient  black- 
ness, pierced  here  and  there  with  a  rayless  star;  taking 
the  sweet  air  of  the  moors  and  the  night  into  his  bosom 
deeply ;  seeking,  perhaps  finding,  peace  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  unhappy.  He  turned  round  as  she  came  in, 
and  showed  her  a  pale  face  against  the  window-frame. 

'*  Is  that  you,  Kirstie  ?  "  he  asked.     "  Come  in ! " 

"  It's  unco  late,  my  dear,"  said  Kirstie,  affecting  un- 
willingness. 

**No,  no,"  he  answered,  **  not  at  all.  Come  in,  if 
you  want  a  crack.     I  am  not  sleepy,  God  knows." 

138 


A  NOCTURNAL  VISIT 

She  advanced,  took  a  chair  by  the  toilet  table  and  the 
candle,  and  set  the  rush-light  at  her  foot.  Something — 
it  might  be  in  the  comparative  disorder  of  her  dress,  it 
might  be  the  emotion  that  now  welled  in  her  bosom  — 
had  touched  her  with  a  wand  of  transformation,  and 
she  seemed  young  with  the  youth  of  goddesses. 

**  Mr.  Erchie,"  she  began,  *' what's  this  that's  come 
to  ye?" 

**I  am  not  aware  of  anything  that  has  come,"  said 
Archie,  and  blushed  and  repented  bitterly  that  he  had 
let  her  in. 

**  Oh,  my  dear,  that'll  no  dae!  "  said  Kirstie.  *'  It's 
ill  to  blind  the  eyes  of  love.  Oh,  Mr.  Erchie,  tak'  a 
thocht  ere  it's  ower  late.  Ye  shouldnae  be  impatient  o' 
the  braws  o'  life,  they'll  a'  come  in  their  saison,  like  the 
sun  and  the  rain.  Ye're  young  yet;  ye've  mony  cantie 
years  afore  ye.  See  and  dinnae  wreck  yersel  at  the  out- 
set like  sae  mony  ithers!  Hae  patience  —  they  telled 
me  aye  that  was  the  owercome  o'  life  —  hae  patience, 
there's  a  braw  day  coming  yet.  Gude  kens  it  never 
cam  to  me;  and  here  I  am  wi'  nayther  man  nor  bairn 
to  ca*  my  ain,  wearying  a'  folks  wi'  my  ill  tongue,  and 
you  just  the  first,  Mr.  Erchie  ?  " 

"I  have  a  difficulty  in  knowing  what  you  mean," 
said  Archie. 

*'Weel,  and  I'll  tell  ye,"  she  said.  **It's  just  this, 
that  I'm  feared.  I'm  feared  for  ye,  my  dear.  Remem- 
ber, your  faither  is  a  hard  man,  reaping  where  he  hasnae 
sowed  and  gaithering  where  he  hasnae  strawed.  It's 
easy  speakin',  but  mind !  Ye'll  have  to  look  in  the  gurl> 
face  o'm,  where  it's  ill  to  look,  and  vain  to  look  for 
mercy.     Ye  mind  me  o'  a  bonny  ship  pitten  oot  into 

139 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

the  black  and  gowsty  seas  —  ye're  a'  safe  still  sittin' 
quait  and  crackin'  wi'  Kirstie  in  your  lown  chalmer; 
but  whaur  will  ye  be  the  morn,  and  in  whatten  horror 
o'  the  fearsome  tempest,  cryin'  on  the  hills  to  cover 
ye?" 

"Why,  Kirstie,  you're  very  enigmatical  to-night  — 
and  very  eloquent,"  Archie  put  in. 

**  And,  my  dear  Mr.  Erchie,"  she  continued,  with  a 
change  of  voice,  "ye  mauna  think  that  I  canna  sym- 
pathise wi'  ye.  Ye  mauna  think  that  I  havena  been 
young  mysel'.  Langsyne,  when  I  was  a  bit  lassie,  no 
twenty  yet  —  "  She  paused  and  sighed.  "  Clean  and 
caller,  wi'  a  fit  like  the  hinney  bee,"  she  continued. 
"I  was  aye  big  and  buirdly,  ye  maun  understand;  a 
bonny  figure  o'  a  woman,  though  I  say  it  that  suldna  — 
built  to  rear  bairns — braw  bairns  they  suld  hae  been, 
and  grand  I  would  hae  likit  it!  But  I  was  young,  dear, 
wi'  the  bonny  glint  o'  youth  in  my  e'en,  and  little  I 
dreamed  I'd  ever  be  tellin'  ye  this,  an  auld,  lanely, 
rudas  wife!  Weel,  Mr.  Erchie,  there  was  a  lad  cam' 
courtin'  me,  as  was  but  naetural.  Mony  had  come  be- 
fore, and  I  would  nane  o'  them.  But  this  yin  had  a 
tongue  to  wile  the  birds  frae  the  lift  and  the  bees  frae  the 
fox-glove  bells.  Deary  me,  but  it's  lang  syne.  Folk 
have  deed  sinsyne  and  been  buried,  and  are  forgotten, 
and  bairns  been  born  and  got  merrit  and  got  bairns  o' 
their  ain.  Sinsyne  woods  have  been  plantit,  and  have 
grawn  up  and  are  bonny  trees,  and  the  joes  sit  in  their 
shadow,  and  sinsyne  auld  estates  have  changed  hands, 
and  there  have  been  wars  and  rumours  of  wars  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  And  here  I'm  still  —  like  an  auld 
droopit   craw  —  lookin'    on   and   craikin*  ?    But,   Mr. 

140 


A  NOCTURNAL  VISIT 

Erchie,  do  ye  no  think  that  I  have  mind  o'  it  a'  still  ?  I 
was  dwalling  then  in  my  faither's  house;  and  it's  a 
curious  thing  that  we  were  whiles  trysted  in  the  Deil's 
Hags.  And  do  ye  no  think  that  I  have  mind  of  the 
bonny  simmer  days,  the  lang  miles,  o'  the  bluid-red 
heather,  the  cryin'  o'  the  whaups,  and  the  lad  and  the 
lassie  that  was  trysted  ?  Do  ye  no  think  that  I  mind 
how  the  hilly  sweetness  ran  about  my  hairt.  Ay,  Mr. 
Erchie,  I  ken  the  way  o'  it  —  fine  do  I  ken  the  way  — 
how  the  grace  o'  God  takes  them  like  Paul  of  Tarsus, 
when  they  think  o'  it  least,  and  drives  the  pair  o'  them 
into  a  land  which  is  like  a  dream,  and  the  world  and 
the  folks  in't  are  nae  mair  than  clouds  to  the  puir  lassie, 
and  Heeven  nae  mair  than  windle-straes,  if  she  can  but 
pleesure  him!  Until  Tam  deed  —  that  was  my  story," 
she  broke  off  to  say,  **he  deed,  and  I  wasna  at  the 
buryin'.  But  while  he  was  here,  I  could  take  care  o' 
mysel'.     And  can  yon  puir  lassie  ?  " 

Kirstie,  her  eyes  shining  with  unshed  tears,  stretched 
out  her  hand  towards  him  appealingly;  the  bright  and 
the  dull  gold  of  her  hair  flashed  and  smouldered  in  the 
coils  behind  her  comely  head,  like  the  rays  of  an  eternal 
youth;  the  pure  colour  had  risen  in  her  face;  and  Archie 
was  abashed  alike  by  her  beauty  and  her  story.  He 
came  towards  her  slowly  from  the  window,  took  up 
her  hand  in  his  and  kissed  it. 

"Kirstie,"  he  said  hoarsely,  '*you  have  misjudged 
me  sorely.  I  have  always  thought  of  her,  I  wouldna 
harm  her  for  the  universe,  my  woman." 

*'Eh,  lad,  and  that's  easy  sayin',"  cried  Kirstie,  "but 
it's  nane  sae  easy  doin!  Man,  do  ye  no  comprehend 
that  it's  God's  wull  we  should  be  blendit  and  glamoured, 

141 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

and  have  nae  command  over  our  ain  members  at  a  time 
like  that  ?  My  bairn,"  she  cried,  still  holding  his  hand, 
'* think  o'  the  puir  lass!  have  pity  upon  her,  Erchie!  and 
O,  be  v^ise  for  twa  !  Think  o'  the  risk  she  rins!  I 
have  seen  ye,  and  what's  to  prevent  ithers  ?  I  saw  ye 
once  in  the  Hags,  in  my  ain  howl,  and  I  was  wae  to  see 
ye  there  —  in  pairt  for  the  omen,  for  I  think  there's  a 
weird  on  the  place  —  and  in  pairt  for  puir  nakit  envy 
and  bitterness  o'  hairt.  It's  strange  ye  should  forgather 
there  tae!  God!  but  yon  puir,  thrawn,  auld  Covenanter's 
seen  a  heap  o'  human  natur  since  he  lookit  his  last  on 
the  musket  barrels,  if  he  never  saw  nane  afore,"  she 
added  with  a  kind  of  wonder  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  swear  by  my  honour  I  have  done  her  no  wrong," 
said  Archie.  **  I  swear  by  my  honour  and  the  redemp- 
tion of  my  soul  that  there  shall  none  be  done  her.  I 
have  heard  of  this  before.  I  have  been  foolish,  Kirstie, 
not  unkind  and,  above  all,  not  base." 

"There's  my  bairn!  "  said  Kirstie,  rising.  *M'I1  can 
trust  ye  noo,  I'll  can  gang  to  my  bed  wi'  an  easy  hairt." 
And  then  she  saw  in  a  flash  how  barren  had  been  her 
triumph.  Archie  had  promised  to  spare  the  girl,  and  he 
would  keep  it;  but  who  had  promised  to  spare  Archie? 
What  was  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  Over  a  maze  of  difficulties 
she  glanced,  and  saw,  at  the  end  of  every  passage,  the 
flinty  countenance  of  Hermiston.  And  a  kind  of  horror 
fell  upon  her  at  what  she  had  done.  She  wore  a  tragic 
mask.  "Erchie,  the  Lord  peety  you,  dear,  and  peety 
me!  I  have  buildit  on  this  foundation,"  —  laying  her 
hand  heavily  on  his  shoulder —  "and  buildit  hie,  and  pit 
my  hairt  in  the  buildin'  of  it.  If  the  hale  hypothec  were 
to  fa',  I  think,  laddie,  I  would  dee!    Excuse  a  daft  wife 

142 


A  NOCTURNAL  VISIT 

that  loves  ye,  and  that  kenned  your  mither.  And  for 
His  name's  sake  keep  yersel'  frae  inordinate  desires; 
haud  your  heart  in  baith  your  hands,  carry  it  canny  and 
iaigh ;  dinna  send  it  up  like  a  bairn's  kite  into  the  collies- 
hangie  o'  the  wunds  ?  Mind,  Maister  Erchie  dear,  that 
this  life's  a  disappointment,  and  a  mouthfu'  o'  mools  is 
the  appointed  end." 

**  Ay,  but  Kirstie,  my  woman,  you're  asking  me  ower 
much  at  last,"  said  Archie,  profoundly  moved,  and 
lapsing  into  the  broad  Scots.  "  Ye're  asking  what  nae 
man  can  grant  ye,  what  only  the  Lord  of  heaven  can 
grant  ye  if  He  see  fit.  Ay!  And  can  even  he?  1  can 
promise  ye  what  I  shall  do,  and  you  can  depend  on  that. 
But  how  I  shall  feel  —  my  woman,  that  is  long  past 
thinking  of!" 

They  were  both  standing  by  now  opposite  each  other. 
The  face  of  Archie  wore  the  wretched  semblance  of  a 
smile;  hers  was  convulsed  for  a  moment. 

"  Promise  me  ae  thing,"  she  cried,  in  a  sharp  voice. 
"  Promise  me  ye'll  never  do  naething  without  telling 
me. 

''No,  Kirstie,  I  canna  promise  ye  that,"  he  replied. 
**  I  have  promised  enough,  God  kens!  " 

**May  the  blessing  of  God  lift  and  rest  upon  ye, 
dear! "  she  said. 

'*  God  bless  ye,  my  old  friend,"  said  he. 


143 


CHAPTER  IX 


AT  THE  WEAVER  S  STONE 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Archie  drew  neai 
by  the  hill  path  to  the  Praying  Weaver's  stone.  The 
Hags  were  in  shadow.  But  still,  through  the  gate  of 
the  Slap,  the  sun  shot  a  last  arrow,  which  spead  far  and 
straight  across  the  surface  of  the  moss,  here  and  there 
touching  and  shining  on  a  tussock,  and  lighted  at  length 
on  the  gravestone  and  the  small  figure  awaiting  him 
there.  The  emptiness  and  solitude  of  the  great  moors 
seemed  to  be  concentred  there,  and  Kirstie  pointed  out 
by  that  figure  of  sunshine  for  the  only  inhabitant.  His 
first  sight  of  her  was  thus  excruciatingly  sad,  like  a 
glimpse  of  a  world  from  which  all  light,  comfort,  and 
society  were  on  the  point  of  vanishing.  And  the  next 
moment,  when  she  had  turned  her  face  to  him  and  the 
quick  smile  had  enlightened  it,  the  whole  face  of  nature 
smiled  upon  him  in  her  smile  of  welcome.  Archie's 
slow  pace  was  quickened;  his  legs  hasted  to  her 
though  his  heart  was  hanging  back.  The  girl,  upon 
her  side,  drew  herself  together  slowly  and  stood  up, 
expectant;  she  was  all  languor,  her  face  was  gone 
white;  her  arms  ached  for  him,  her  soul  was  on  tip- 
toes. But  he  deceived  her,  pausing  a  few  steps  away, 
not  less  white  than  herself,  and  holding  up  his  hand 
with  a  gesture  of  denial. 

144 


AT  THE  WEAVER'S  STONE 

"No,  Christina,  not  to-day,*'  he  said.  "To-day  I 
have  to  talk  to  you  seriously.  Sit  ye  down,  please, 
there  where  you  were.     Please! "  he  repeated. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  in  Christina's  heart  was  vio- 
lent. To  have  longed  and  waited  these  weary  hours 
for  him,  rehearsing  her  endearments  —  to  have  seen  him 
at  last  come  —  to  have  been  ready  there,  breathless, 
wholly  passive,  his  to  do  what  he  would  with  —  and 
suddenly  to  have  found  herself  confronted  with  a  grey- 
faced,  harsh  schoolmaster  —  it  was  too  rude  a  shock. 
She  could  have  wept,  but  pride  withheld  her.  She  sat 
down  on  the  stone,  from  which  she  had  arisen,  part 
with  the  instinct  of  obedience,  part  as  though  she  had 
been  thrust  there.  What  was  this  ?  Why  was  she  re- 
jected ?  Had  she  ceased  to  please  ?  She  stood  here  of- 
fering her  wares,  and  he  would  none  of  them !  And 
yet  they  were  all  his !  His  to  take  and  keep,  not  his  to 
refuse  though !  In  her  quick  petulant  nature,  a  moment 
ago  on  fire  with  hope,  thwarted  love  and  wounded  van- 
ity wrought.  The  schoolmaster  that  there  is  in  all 
men,  to  the  despair  of  all  girls  and  most  women,  was 
now  completely  in  possession  of  Archie.  He  had 
passed  a  night  of  sermons ;  a  day  of  reflection ;  he  had 
come  wound  up  to  do  his  duty;  and  the  set  mouth, 
which  in  him  only  betrayed  the  effort  of  his  will,  to  her 
seemed  the  expression  of  an  averted  heart.  It  was  the 
same  with  his  constrained  voice  and  embarrassed  utter- 
ance; and  if  so  —  if  it  was  all  over — the  pang  of  the 
thought  took  away  from  her  the  power  of  thinking. 

He  stood  before  her  some  way  off.  "  Kirstie,  there's 
been  too  much  of  this.  We've  seen  too  much  of  each 
other."   She  looked  up  quickly  and  her  eyes  contracted. 

145 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

'*  There's  no  good  ever  comes  of  these  secret  meetings. 
They're  not  frank,  not  honest  truly,  and  I  ought  to  have 
seen  it.  People  have  begun  to  talk;  and  it's  not  right 
of  me.     Do  you  see  ?" 

'M  see  somebody  will  have  been  talking  to  ye,"  she 
said  sullenly. 

**  They  have,  more  than  one  of  them,"  replied  Archie. 

"  And  whae  were  they  ?  "  she  cried.  **  And  what  kind 
o'  love  do  ye  ca'  that,  that's  ready  to  gang  round  like  a 
whirligig  at  folk  talking?  Do  ye  think  they  havena 
talked  to  me  ?" 

"Have  they  indeed?"  said  Archie,  with  a  quick 
breath.  *'That  is  what  I  feared.  Who  were  they? 
Who  has  dared " 

Archie  was  on  the  point  of  losing  his  temper. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  not  any  one  had  talked  to  Chris- 
tina on  the  matter;  and  she  strenuously  repeated  her 
own  first  question  in  a  panic  of  self-defence. 

"  Ah,  well !  what  does  it  matter  ?  "  he  said.  **  They 
were  good  folk  that  wished  well  to  us,  and  the  great 
affair  is  that  there  are  people  talking.  My  dear  girl, 
we  have  to  be  wise.  We  must  not  wreck  our  lives  at 
the  outset.  They  may  be  long  and  happy  yet,  and  we 
must  see  to  it,  Kirstie,  like  God's  rational  creatures  and 
not  like  fool  children.  There  is  one  thing  we  must  see 
to  before  all.  You're  worth  waiting  for,  Kirstie !  worth 
waiting  for  a  generation ;  it  would  be  enough  reward. " — 
And  here  he  remembered  the  schoolmaster  again,  and 
very  unwisely  took  to  following  wisdom.  "  The  first 
thing  that  we  must  see  to,  is  that  there  shall  be  no  scan- 
dal about  for  my  father's  sake.  That  would  ruin  all; 
do  ye  no  see  that?" 

146 


AT  THE  WEAVER'S  STONE 

Kirstie  was  a  little  pleased,  there  had  been  some  show 
of  warmth  of  sentiment  in  what  Archie  had  said  last. 
But  the  dull  irritation  still  persisted  in  her  bosom ;  with 
the  aboriginal  instinct,  having  suffered  herself,  she 
wished  to  make  Archie  suffer. 

And  besides,  there  had  come  out  the  word  she  had 
always  feared  to  hear  from  his  lips,  the  name  of  his  fa- 
ther. It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that,  during  so  many 
days  with  a  love  avowed  between  them,  some  refer- 
ence had  not  been  made  to  their  conjoint  future.  It 
had  in  fact  been  often  touched  upon,  and  from  the  first 
had  been  the  sore  point.  Kirstie  had  wilfully  closed 
the  eye  of  thought;  she  would  not  argue  even  with 
herself;  gallant,  desperate  little  heart,  she  had  accepted 
the  command  of  that  supreme  attraction  like  the  call  of 
fate  and  marched  blindfold  on  her  doom.  But  Archie, 
with  his  masculine  sense  of  responsibility,  must  reason; 
he  must  dwell  on  some  future  good,  when  the  present 
good  was  all  in  all  to  Kirstie;  he  must  talk  —  and  talk 
lamely,  as  necessity  drove  him  —  of  what  was  to  be. 
Again  and  again  he  had  touched  on  marriage;  again 
and  again  been  driven  back  into  indistinctness  by  a 
memory  of  Lord  Hermiston.  And  Kirstie  had  been 
swift  to  understand  and  quick  to  choke  down  and 
smother  the  understanding;  swift  to  leap  up  in  flame 
at  a  mention  of  that  hope,  which  spoke  volumes  to  her 
vanity  and  her  love,  that  she  might  one  day  be  Mrs. 
Weir  of  Hermiston;  swift,  also,  to  recognise  in  his 
stumbling  or  throttled  utterance  the  death-knell  of  these 
expectations,  and  constant,  poor  girl!  in  her  large- 
minded  madness,  to  go  on  and  to  reck  nothing  of  the 
future.     But  these  unfinished  references,  these  blinks  in 

M7 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

which  his  heart  spoke,  and  his  memory  and  reason  rose 
up  to  silence  it  before  the  words  were  well  uttered, 
gave  her  unqualifiable  agony.  She  was  raised  up  and 
dashed  down  again  bleeding.  The  recurrence  of  the 
subject  forced  her,  for  however  short  a  time,  to  open 
her  eyes  on  what  she  did  not  wish  to  see;  and  it  had 
invariably  ended  in  another  disappointment.  So  now 
again,  at  the  mere  wind  of  its  coming,  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  his  father's  name  —  who  might  seem  indeed  to 
have  accompanied  them  in  their  whole  moorland  court- 
ship, an  awful  figure  in  a  wig  with  an  ironical  and  bit- 
ter smile,  present  to  guilty  consciousness  —  she  fled 
from  it  head  down. 

"Ye  havena  told  me  yet,"  she  said,  **who  was  it 
spoke  ?  " 

**  Your  aunt  for  one,"  said  Archie. 

**  Auntie  Kirstie  ?  "  she  cried.  *'  And  what  do  I  care 
for  my  Auntie  Kirstie  ?  " 

'*  She  cares  a  great  deal  for  her  niece,"  replied  Archie, 
in  kind  reproof. 

*' Troth,  and  it's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,"  retorted 
the  girl. 

**The  question  here  is  not  who  it  is,  but  what  they 
say,  what  they  have  noticed,"  pursued  the  lucid  school- 
master. **That  is  what  we  have  to  think  of  in  self- 
defence." 

"  Auntie  Kirstie,  indeed !  A  bitter,  thrawn  auld  maid 
that's  fomented  trouble  in  the  country  before  I  was  born, 
and  will  be  doing  it  still,  I  daur  say,  when  I'm  deid! 
It's  in  her  nature;  it's  as  natural  for  her  as  it's  for  a 
sheep  to  eat." 

148 


AT  THE  WEAVER'S  STONE 

"  Pardon  me,  Kirstie,  she  was  not  the  only  one,"  in- 
terposed Archie.  **I  had  two  warnings,  two  sermons, 
last  night,  both  most  kind  and  considerate.  Had  you 
been  there,  I  promise  you  you  would  have  grat,  my 
dear!  And  they  opened  my  eyes.  I  saw  we  were  go- 
ing a  wrong  way." 

"  Who  was  the  other  one  ?"    Kirstie  demanded. 

By  this  time  Archie  was  in  the  condition  of  a  hunted 
beast.  He  had  come,  braced  and  resolute;  he  was  to 
trace  out  a  line  of  conduct  for  the  pair  of  them  in  a  few 
cold,  convincing  sentences;  he  had  now  been  there 
some  time,  and  he  was  still  staggering  round  the  out- 
works and  undergoing  what  he  felt  to  be  a  savage 
cross-examination. 

**Mr.  Frank!  "  she  cried.  **  What  nex',  I  would  like 
token.?" 

"  He  spoke  most  kindly  and  truly." 

''What  like  did  he  say?" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you;  you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  that,"  cried  Archie,  startled  to  find  he  had  ad- 
mitted so  much. 

**0,  1  have  naething  to  do  with  it!"  she  repeated, 
springing  to  her  feet.  "  A'body  at  Hermiston's  free  to 
pass  their  opinions  upon  me,  but  I  have  naething  to  do 
wi'  it!  Was  this  at  prayers  like  ?  Did  ye  ca'  the  grieve 
into  the  consultation  ?  Little  wonder  if  a'body's  talk- 
ing, when  ye  make  a'body  ye're  confidants!  But  as 
you  say,  Mr.  Weir, —  most  kindly,  most  considerately, 
most  truly,  I'm  sure, —  1  have  naething  to  do  with  it. 
And  I  think  I'll  better  be  going.  I'll  be  wishing  you 
good  evening,  Mr.  Weir."    And  she  made  him  a  stately 

149 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

curtsey,  shaking  as  she  did  so  from  head  to  foot,  with 
the  barren  ecstasy  of  temper. 

Poor  Archie  stood  dumfounded.  She  had  moved 
some  steps  away  from  him  before  he  recovered  the  gift 
of  articulate  speech. 

"Kirstie!"  he  cried.     "O,  Kirstie  woman!  " 

There  was  in  his  voice  a  ring  of  appeal,  a  clang  of 
mere  astonishment  that  showed  the  schoolmaster  was 
vanquished. 

She  turned  round  on  him.  **  What  do  ye  Kirstie  me 
for?"  she  retorted.  "What  have  ye  to  do  wi'  me? 
Gang  to  your  ain  freends  and  deave  them ! " 

He  could  only  repeat  the  appealing  "  Kirstie! " 

"  Kirstie,  indeed!  "  cried  the  girl,  her  eyes  blazing  in 
her  white  face.  "My  name  is  Miss  Christina  Elliott,  I 
would  have  ye  to  ken,  and  I  daur  ye  to  ca'  me  out  of 
it.  If  I  canna  get  love,  I'll  have  respect,  Mr.  Weir.  I'm 
come  of  decent  people,  and  I'll  have  respect.  What 
have  I  done  that  ye  should  lightly  me  ?  What  have  I 
done?  What  have  I  done?  O,  what  have  I  done?" 
and  her  voice  rose  upon  the  third  repetition.  "  I  thocht 
—  I  thocht  —  I  thocht  I  was  sae  happy!"  and  the  first 
sob  broke  from  her  like  the  paroxysm  of  some  mortal 
sickness. 

Archie  ran  to  her.  He  took  the  poor  child  in  his 
arms,  and  she  nestled  to  his  breast  as  to  a  mother's, 
and  clasped  him  in  hands  that  were  strong  like  vices. 
He  felt  her  whole  body  shaken  by  the  throes  of  distress, 
and  had  pity  upon  her  beyond  speech.  Pity,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  bewildered  fear  of  this  explosive  engine  in 
his  arms,  whose  works  he  did  not  understand,  and  yet 
had  been  tampering  with.     There  arose  from  before 

1 50 


AT  THE  WEAVER'S  STONE 

him  the  curtains  of  boyhood,  and  he  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  ambiguous  face  of  woman  as  she  is.  In  vain 
he  looked  back  over  the  interview ;  he  saw  not  where 
he  had  offended.  It  seemed  unprovoked,  a  wilful  con- 
vulsion of  brute  nature.  .  .  . 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

With  the  words  last  printed,  "  a  wilful  convulsion  of  brute  nature," 
the  romance  of  IVeir  of  Hermiston  breaks  off.  They  were  dictated, 
I  believe,  on  the  very  morning  of  the  writer's  sudden  seizure  and  death. 
IVeir  of  Hermiston  thus  remains  in  the  work  of  Stevenson  what  Edwin 
Drood  is  in  the  work  of  Dickens  or  Denis  Duval  in  that  of  Thackeray: 
or  rather  it  remains  relatively  more,  for  if  each  of  those  fragments  holds 
an  honourable  place  among  its  author's  writings,  among  Stevenson's 
the  fragment  of  IVeir  holds  certainly  the  highest. 

Readers  may  be  divided  in  opinion  on  the  question  whether  they 
would  or  they  would  not  wish  to  hear  more  of  the  intended  course  of 
the  story  and  destinies  of  the  characters.  To  some,  silence  may  seem 
best,  and  that  the  mind  should  be  left  to  its  own  conjectures  as  to  the 
sequel^  with  the  help  of  such  indications  as  the  text  affords.  I  confess 
that  this  is  the  view  which  has  my  sympathy.  But  since  others,  and 
those  almost  certainly  a  majority,  are  anxious  to  be  told  all  they  can, 
and  since  editors  and  publishers  join  in  the  request,  I  can  scarce  do 
otherwise  than  comply.  The  intended  argument,  then,  so  far  as  it 
was  known  at  the  time  of  the  writer's  death  to  his  step-daughter  and 
devoted  amanuensis,  Mrs.  Strong,  was  nearly  as  follows:  — 

Archie  persists  in  his  good  resolution  of  avoiding  further  conduct 
compromising  to  young  Kirstie's  good  name.  Taking  advantage  of 
the  situation  thus  created,  and  of  the  girl's  unhappiness  and  wounded 
vanity,  Frank  Innes  pursues  his  purpose  of  seduction;  and  Kirstie, 
though  still  caring  for  Archie  in  her  heart,  allows  herself  to  become 
Frank's  victim.  Old  Kirstie  is  the  first  to  perceive  something  amiss 
with  her,  and  believing  Archie  to  be  the  culprit,  accuses  him,  thus 
making  him  aware  for  the  first  time  that  mischief  has  happened.  He 
does  not  at  once  deny  the  charge,  but  seeks  out  and  questions  young 
Kirstie,  who  confesses  the  truth  to  him;  and  he,  still  loving  her, 
promises  to  protect  and  defend  her  in  her  trouble.    He  then  has  an  inter- 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

view  with  Frank  Innes  on  the  moor,  which  ends  in  a  quarrel,  and  in 
Archie  killing  Frank  beside  the  Weaver's  Stone.  Meanwhile  the  Four 
Black  Brothers,  having  become  aware  of  their  sister's  betrayal,  are  bent 
on  vengeance  against  Archie  as  her  supposed  seducer.  They  are  about 
to  close  in  upon  him  with  this  purpose,  when  he  is  arrested  by  the  of- 
ficers of  the  law  for  the  murder  of  Frank.  He  is  tried  before  his  own 
father,  the  Lord  Justice-Clerk,  found  guilty,  and  condemned  to  death. 
Meanwhile  the  elder  Kirstie,  having  discovered  from  the  girl  how  mat- 
ters really  stand,  informs  her  nephews  of  the  truth :  and  they,  in  a 
great  revulsion  of  feeling  in  Archie's  favour,  determine  on  an  action 
after  the  ancient  manner  of  their  house.  They  gather  a  following,  and 
after  a  great  fight  break  the  prison  where  Archie  lies  confined,  and  res- 
cue him.  He  and  young  Kirstie  thereafter  escape  to  America.  But  the 
ordeal  of  taking  part  in  the  trial  of  his  own  son  has  been  too  much  for 
the  Lord  Justice-Clerk,  who  dies  of  the  shock.  "  I  do  not  know," 
adds  the  amanuensis,  "  what  becomes  of  old  Kirstie,  but  that  character 
grew  and  strengthened  so  in  the  writing  that  I  am  sure  he  had  some 
dramatic  destiny  for  her." 

The  plan  of  every  imaginative  work  is  subject,  of  course,  to  change 
under  the  artist's  hand  as  he  carries  it  out;  and  not  merely  the  char- 
acter of  the  elder  Kirstie,  but  other  elements  of  the  design  no  less, 
might  well  have  deviated  from  the  lines  originally  traced.  It  seems 
certain,  however,  that  the  next  stage  in  the  relations  of  Archie  and  the 
younger  Kirstie  would  have  been  as  above  foreshadowed;  this  con- 
ception of  the  lover's  unconventional  chivalry  and  unshaken  devotion 
to  his  mistress  after  her  fault  is  very  characteristic  of  the  author's  mind. 
The  vengeance  to  be  taken  on  the  seducer  beside  the  Weaver's  Stone 
is  prepared  for  in  the  first  words  of  the  Introduction:  while  the  situa- 
tion and  fate  of  the  judge,  confronting  like  a  Brutus,  but  unable  to  sur- 
vive, the  duty  of  sending  his  own  son  to  the  gallows,  seems  clearly  to 
have  been  destined  to  furnish  the  climax  and  essential  tragedy  of  the 
tale.  How  this  circumstance  was  to  have  been  brought  about  within 
the  limits  of  legal  usage  and  social  possibility,  seems  hard  to  conjec- 
ture; but  it  was  a  point  to  which  the  author  had  evidently  given  care- 
fill  consideration.  Mrs.  Strong  says  simply  that  the  Lord  Justice-Clerk, 
like  an  old  Roman,  condemns  his  son  to  death;  but  I  am  assured  on 
the  best  legal  authority  of  Scotland,  that  no  judge,  however  powerful 

«54 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

either  by  character  or  office,  could  have  insisted  on  presiding  at  the 
trial  of  a  near  kinsman  of  his  own.  The  Lord  Justice-Clerk  was  head  of 
the  criminal  justiciary  of  the  country;  he  might  have  insisted  on  his 
right  of  being  present  on  the  bench  when  his  son  was  tried;  but  he 
would  never  have  been  allowed  to  preside  or  to  pass  sentence.  Now 
in  a  letter  of  Stevenson's  to  Mr,  Baxter,  of  October  1892,  I  find  him 
asking  for  materials  in  terms  which  seem  to  indicate  that  he  knew  this 
quite  well: — "I  wish  Pitcairn's  'Criminal  Trials,'  quam  primum. 
Also  an  absolutely  correct  text  of  the  Scots  judiciary  oath.  Also,  in 
case  Pitcairn  does  not  come  down  late  enough,  I  wish  as  full  a  report 
as  possible  of  a  Scots  murder  trial  between  1790- 1820.  Understand, 
the  fullest  possible.  Is  there  any  book  which  would  guide  me  to  the 
following  facts?  The  Justice-Clerk  tries  some  people  capitally  on  cir- 
cuit. Certain  evidence  cropping  up,  the  charge  is  transferred  to  the 
Justice-Clerk's  own  son.  Of  course  in  the  next  trial  the  Justice-Clerk 
is  excluded,  and  the  case  is  called  before  the  Lord  Justice-General. 
Where  would  this  trial  have  to  be  ?  I  fear  in  Edinburgh,  which  would 
not  suit  my  view.  Could  it  be  again  at  the  circuit  town?"  The 
point  was  referred  to  a  quondam  fellow-member  with  Stevenson  of  the 
Edinburgh  Speculative  Society,  Mr,  Graham  Murray,  the  present  Solic- 
itor-General for  Scotland;  whose  reply  was  to  the  effect  that  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  making  the  new  trial  take  place  at  the  circuit 
town:  that  it  would  have  to  be  held  there  in  spring  or  autumn,  before 
two  Lords  of  Justiciary;  and  that  the  Lord  Justice-General  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  this  title  being  at  the  date  in  question  only  a 
nominal  one  held  by  a  layman  (which  is  no  longer  the  case).  On  this 
Stevenson  writes,  "  Graham  Murray's  note  re  the  venue  was  highly 
satisfactory,  and  did  me  all  the  good  in  the  world,"  The  terms  of  his 
inquiry  seem  to  imply  that  he  intended  other  persons,  before  Archie,  to 
have  fallen  first  under  suspicion  of  the  murder;  and  also  —  doubtless  in 
order  to  make  the  rescue  by  the  Black  Brothers  possible  —  that  he 
wanted  Archie  to  be  imprisoned  not  in  Edinburgh  but  in  the  circuit 
town.  But  they  do  not  show  how  he  meant  to  get  over  the  main  diffi- 
culty, which  at  the  same  time  he  fully  recognises.  Can  it  have  been 
that  Lord  Hermiston's  part  was  to  have  been  limited  to  presiding  at  the 
first  trial,  where  the  evidence  incriminating  Archie  was  unexpectedly 
brought  forward,  and  to  directing  that  the  law  should  take  its  course  ? 
Whether  the  final  escape  and  union  of  Archie  and  Christina  would 

^55 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

have  proved  equally  essential  to  the  plot  may  perhaps  to  some  readers 
seem  questionable.  They  may  rather  feel  that  a  tragic  destiny  is  fore- 
shadowed from  the  beginning  for  all  concerned,  and  is  inherent  in  the 
very  conditions  of  the  tale.  But  on  this  point,  and  other  matters  of 
general  criticism  connected  with  it,  I  find  an  interesting  discussion  by 
the  author  himself  in  his  correspondence.  Writing  to  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie, 
under  date  November  i,  1892,  and  criticising  that  author's  famous  story, 
of  The  Little  Minister,  Stevenson  says:  — 

"  Your  descriptions  of  your  dealings  with  Lord  Rintoul  are  fright- 
fully unconscientious.  .  .  .  The  Little  Minister  ought  to  have  ended 
badly;  we  all  know  it  did,  and  we  are  infinitely  grateful  to  you  for  the 
grace  and  good  feeling  with  which  you  have  lied  about  it.  If  you  had 
told  the  truth,  I  for  one  could  never  have  forgiven  you.  As  you  had 
conceived  and  written  the  earlier  parts,  the  truth  about  the  end,  though 
indisputably  true  to  fact,  would  have  been  a  lie,  or  what  is  worse,  a 
discord  in  art.  If  you  are  going  to  make  a  book  end  badly,  it  must 
end  badly  from  the  beginning.  Now,  your  book  began  to  end  well. 
You  let  yourself  fall  in  love  with,  and  fondle,  and  smile  at  your  pup- 
pets. Once  you  had  done  that,  your  honour  was  committed  —  at  the 
cost  of  truth  to  life  you  were  bound  to  save  them.  It  is  the  blot  on 
Richard  Fever  el  for  instance,  that  it  begins  to  end  well;  and  then  tricks 
you  and  ends  ill.  But  in  this  case,  there  is  worse  behind,  for  the  ill 
ending  does  not  inherently  issue  from  the  plot  —  the  story  had,  in  fact, 
ended  well  after  the  great  last  interview  between  Richard  and  Lucy, 
—  and  the  blind,  illogical  bullet  which  smashes  all  has  no  more  to  do 
between  the  boards  than  a  fly  has  to  do  with  a  room  into  whose  open 
window  it  comes  buzzing.  It  might  have  so  happened;  it  needed  not; 
and  unless  needs  must,  we  have  no  right  to  pain  our  readers.  I  have 
had  a  heavy  case  of  conscience  of  the  same  kind  about  my  Brax- 
field  story.  Braxfield —  only  his  name  is  Hermiston  —  has  a  son  who 
is  condemned  to  death;  plainly  there  is  a  fine  tempting  fitness  about 
this  —  and  1  meant  he  was  to  hang.  But  on  considering  my  minor 
characters,  1  saw  there  were  five  people  who  would  —  in  a  sense,  who 
must—  break  prison  and  attempt  his  rescue.  They  are  capable  hardy 
folks  too,  who  might  very  well  succeed.  Why  should  they  not  then  ? 
Why  should  not  young  Hermiston  escape  clear  out  of  the  country  ?  and 
be  happy,  if  he  could,  with  his  —  but  soft!  1  will  not  betray  my  secret 
nor  my  heroine.  ..." 

156 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

To  pass,  now,  from  the  question  how  the  story  would  have  ended  to 
the  question  how  it  originated  and  grew  in  the  writer's  mind.  The 
character  of  the  hero,  Weir  of  Hermiston,  is  avowedly  suggested  by 
the  historical  personalty  of  Robert  Macqueen,  Lord  Braxfield.  This 
famous  judge  has  been  for  generations  the  subject  of  a  hundred  Edin- 
burgh tales  and  anecdotes.  Readers  of  Stevenson's  essay  on  the  Rae- 
burn  exhibition  in  yirginihus  Puerisque,  will  remember  how  he  is 
fascinated  by  Raeburn's  portrait  of  Braxfield,  even  as  Lockhart  had 
been  fascinated  by  a  different  portrait  of  the  same  worthy  sixty  years 
before  (see  Teter^s  Letters  to  His  Kinsfolk);  nor  did  his  interest  in  the 
character  diminish  in  later  life. 

Again,  the  case  of  a  judge  involved  by  the  exigencies  of  his  office  in 
a  strong  conflict  between  public  duty  and  private  interest  or  affection, 
was  one  which  had  always  attracted  and  exercised  Stevenson's  imagi- 
natiort  In  the  days  when  he  and  Mr.  Henley  were  collaborating  with 
a  view  to  the  stage,  Mr.  Henley  once  proposed  a  plot  founded  on  the 
story  of  Mr.  justice  Harbottle  in  Sheridan  Le  Fanu's  In  a  Glass  Darkly, 
in  which  the  wicked  judge  goes  headlong  per  fas  et  nefas  to  his  object 
of  getting  the  husband  of  his  mistress  hanged.  Some  time  later 
Stevenson  and  his  wife  together  wrote  a  play  called  The  Hanging  Judge. 
In  this,  the  title  character  is  tempted  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  to  tam- 
per with  the  course  of  justice,  in  order  to  shield  his  wife  from  persecu- 
tion by  a  former  husband  who  reappears  after  being  supposed  dead. 
Bulwer's  novel  of  Paul  Clifford,  with  its  final  situation  of  the  worldly- 
minded  judge,  Sir  William  Brandon,  learning  that  the  highwayman 
whom  he  is  in  the  act  of  sentencing  is  his  own  son,  and  dying  of  the 
knowledge,  was  also  well  known  to  Stevenson,  and  no  doubt  counted 
for  something  in  the  suggestion  of  the  present  story. 

Once  more,  the  difficulties  often  attending  the  relation  of  father  and 
son  in  actual  life  had  pressed  heavily  on  Stevenson's  mind  and  conscience 
from  the  days  of  his  youth,  when  in  obeying  the  law  of  his  own  nature 
he  had  been  constrained  to  disappoint,  distress,  and  for  a  time  to  be 
much  misunderstood  by,  a  father  whom  he  justly  loved  and  admire i 
with  all  his  heart.  Difficulties  of  this  kind  he  had  already  handled  in  a 
lighter  vein  once  or  twice  in  fiction  —  as  for  instance  in  the  Story  of  a 
Lie  and  in  The  Wrecker  —  before  he  grappled  with  them  in  the  acute 
and  tragic  phase  in  which  they  occur  in  the  present  story. 

These  three  elements,  then,  the  interest  of  the  historical  personality 

»57 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

of  Lord  Braxfield,  the  problems  and  emotions  arising  from  a  violent 
conflict  between  duty  and  nature  in  a  judge,  and  the  difficulties  due  to 
incompatibility  and  misunderstanding  between  father  and  son,  lie  at 
the  foundations  of  the  present  story.  To  touch  on  minor  matters,  it  is 
perhaps  worth  notice,  as  Mr.  Henley  reminds  me,  that  the  name  of 
Weir  had  from  of  old  a  special  significance  for  Stevenson's  imagination, 
from  the  traditional  fame  in  Edinburgh  of  Major  Weir,  burned  as  a 
warlock,  together  with  his  sister,  under  circumstances  of  peculiar  atro- 
city. Another  name,  that  of  the  episodical  personage  of  Mr.  Torrance 
the  minister,  is  borrowed  direct  from  life,  as  indeed  are  the  whole  figure 
and  its  surroundings —  kirkyard,  kirk,  and  manse  —  down  even  to  the 
black  thread  mittens:  witness  the  following  passage  from  a  letter  of  the 
early  seventies:  —  "I've  been  to  church  and  am  not  depressed  —  a 
great  step.  It  was  at  that  beautiful  church  [of  Glencorse  in  the  Pent- 
lands,  three  miles  from  his  father's  country  home  at  Swanston].  It  is 
a  little  cruciform  place,  with  a  steep  slate  roof  The  small  kirkyard  is 
full  of  old  gravestones;  one  of  a  Frenchman  from  Dunkerque,  I  suppose 
he  died  prisoner  in  the  military  prison  hard  by.  And  one,  the  most 
pathetic  memorial  I  ever  saw:  a  poor  school-slate,  in  a  wooden  frame, 
with  the  inscription  cut  into  it  evidently  by  the  father's  own  hand.  In 
church,  old  Mr.  Torrance  preached,  over  eighty  and  a  relic  of  times  for- 
gotten, with  his  black  thread  gloves  and  mild  old  face."  A  side  hint 
for  a  particular  trait  in  the  character  of  Mrs.  Weir  we  can  trace  in  some 
family  traditions  concerning  the  writer's  own  grandmother,  who  is  re- 
ported to  have  valued  piety  much  more  than  efficiency  in  her  domestic 
servants.  The  other  women  characters  seem,  so  far  as  his  friends  know, 
to  have  been  pure  creation,  and  especially  that  new  and  admirable  in- 
carnation of  the  eternal  feminine  in  the  elder  Kirstie.  The  little  that  he 
says  about  her  himself  is  in  a  letter  written  a  few  days  before  his  death 
to  Mr.  Gosse.  The  allusions  are  to  the  various  moods  and  attitudes  of 
people  in  regard  to  middle  age,  and  are  suggested  by  Mr.  Gosse's 
volume  of  poems,  In  Rmset  and  Silver.  "  It  seems  rather  funny,"  he 
writes,  "  that  this  matter  should  come  up  just  now,  as  I  am  at  present 
engaged  in  treating  a  severe  case  of  middle  age  in  one  of  my  stories, 
The  Justice-Clerk.  The  case  is  that  of  a  woman,  and  I  think  I  am 
doing  her  justice.  You  will  be  interested,  I  believe,  to  see  the  difference 
in  our  treatments.  Seer  eta  Vitae  [the  title  of  one  of  Mr.  Gosse's  poems] 
comes  nearer  to  the  case  of  my  poor  Kirstie."     From  the  wonderful 

158 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

midnight  scene  between  her  and  Archie,  we  may  judge  what  we  have 
lost  in  those  later  scenes  where  she  was  to  have  taxed  him  with  the 
fault  that  was  not  his  —  to  have  presently  learned  his  innocence  from 
the  lips  of  his  supposed  victim  —  to  have  then  vindicated  him  to  her 
kinsmen  and  fired  them  to  the  action  of  his  rescue.  The  scene  of  the 
prison-breaking  here  planned  by  Stevenson  would  have  gained  interest 
(as  will  already  have  occurred  to  readers)  from  comparison  with  the  two 
famous  precedents  in  Scott,  the  Porteous  mob,  and  the  breaking  of 
Portanferry  Jail. 

The  best  account  of  Stevenson's  methods  of  imaginative  work  is  in 
the  following  sentences  from  a  letter  of  his  own  to  Mr.  W.  Craibe 
Angus  of  Glasgow:  —  'M  am  still  a  '  slow  study,'  and  sit  for  a  long 
while  silent  on  my  eggs.  Unconscious  thought,  there  is  the  only 
method:  macerate  your  subject,  let  it  boil  slow,  then  take  the  lid  off 
and  look  in  —  and  there  your  stuff  is  —  good  or  bad."  The  several 
elements  above  noted  having  been  left  to  work  for  many  years  in  his 
mind,  it  was  in  the  autumn  of  1892  that  he  was  moved  to  '*  take  the 
lid  off  and  look  in,"  —  under  the  influence,  it  would  seem,  of  a  special 
and  overmastering  wave  of  that  feeling  for  the  romance  of  Scottish 
scenery  and  character  which  was  at  all  times  so  strong  in  him,  and 
which  his  exile  did  so  much  to  intensify.  I  quote  again  from  his  letter 
to  Mr.  Barrie  on  November  i  in  that  year:  —  "  It  is  a  singular  thing 
that  I  should  live  here  in  the  South  Seas  under  conditions  so  new  and 
so  striking,  and  yet  my  imagination  so  continually  inhabit  the  cold 
old  huddle  of  grey  hills  from  which  we  come.  I  have  finished  David 
Balfour,  I  have  another  book  on  the  stocks,  The  Young  Chevalier, 
which  is  to  be  part  in  France  and  part  in  Scotland,  and  to  deal  with 
Prince  Charlie  about  the  year  1749;  and  now  what  have  I  done  but 
begun  a  third,  which  is  to  be  all  moorland  together,  and  is  to  have  for 
a  centre-piece  a  figure  that  I  think  you  will  appreciate  —  that  of  the 
immortal  Braxfield.  Braxfield  himself  is  my  grand  premier  —  or  since 
you  are  so  much  involved  in  the  British  drama,  let  me  say  my  heavy 
lead." 

Writing  to  me  at  the  same  date  he  makes  the  same  announcement 
more  briefly,  with  a  list  of  the  characters  and  an  indication  of  the  scene 
and  date  of  the  story.  To  Mr.  Baxter  he  writes  a  month  later,  "  I 
have  a  novel  on  the  stocks  to  be  called  The  Justice-Clerk.  It  is  pretty 
Scotch;  the  grand  premier  is  taken  from  Braxfield  (O,  by  the  by,  5end 

159 


WEIR  OF   HERMISTON 

me  Cockbum's  Memorials),  and  some  of  the  story  is,  well,  queer.  The 
heroine  is  seduced  by  one  man,  and  finally  disappears  with  the  other 
man  who  shot  him.  .  .  .  Mind  you,  I  expect  The  Justice-Clerk  to 
be  my  masterpiece.  My  Braxfield  is  already  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a 
joy  for  ever,  and  so  far  as  he  has  gone  far  my  best  character."  From 
the  last  extract  it  appears  that  he  had  already  at  this  date  drafted  some 
of  the  earlier  chapters  of  the  book.  He  also  about  the  same  time  com- 
posed the  dedication  to  his  wife,  who  found  it  pinned  to  her  bed-cur- 
tains one  morning  on  awaking.  It  was  always  his  habit  to  keep  sev- 
eral books  in  progress  at  the  same  time,  turning  from  one  to  another 
as  the  fancy  took  him,  and  finding  rest  in  the  change  of  labour;  and 
for  many  months  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  first  illness,  —  then  a  voy- 
age to  Auckland,  —  then  work  on  the  Ehh-Tide,  on  a  new  tale  called 
St.  Ives,  which  was  begun  during  an  attack  of  influenza,  and  on  his 
projected  book  of  family  history,  —  prevented  his  making  any  contin- 
uous progress  with  IVeir.  In  August  1893  he  says  he  has  been  recast- 
ing the  beginning.  A  year  later,  still  only  the  first  four  or  five  chapters 
had  been  drafted.  Then,  in  the  last  weeks  of  his  life,  he  attacked  the 
task  again,  in  a  sudden  heat  of  inspiration,  and  worked  at  it  ardently 
and  without  interruption  until  the  end  came.  No  wonder  if  during 
those  weeks  he  was  sometimes  aware  of  a  tension  of  the  spirit  difficult 
to  sustain.  "  How  can  I  keep  this  pitch  ?  "  he  is  reported  to  have  said 
after  finishing  one  of  the  chapters.  To  keep  the  pitch  proved  indeed 
beyond  his  strength;  and  that  frail  organism,  taxed  so  long  and  so  un- 
sparingly in  obedience  to  his  indomitable  will,  at  last  betrayed  him  in 
mid  effort. 

There  remains  one  more  point  to  be  mentioned,  as  to  the  speech  and 
manners  of  the  Hanging  Judge  himself.  That  these  are  not  a  whit  ex- 
aggerated, in  comparison  with  what  is  recorded  of  his  historic  proto- 
type. Lord  Braxfield,  is  certain.  The  locus  classicus  in  regard  to  this 
personage  is  in  Lord  Cockbum's  Memorials  of  his  Time.  "  Strong 
built  and  dark,  with  rough  eyebrows,  powerful  eyes,  threatening  lips, 
and  a  low  growling  voice,  he  was  like  a  formidable  blacksmith.  His 
accent  and  dialect  were  exaggerated  Scotch;  his  language,  like  his 
thoughts,  short,  strong,  and  conclusive.  Illiterate  and  without  any 
taste  for  any  refined  enjoyment,  strength  of  understanding  which  gave 
him  power  without  cultivation,  only  encouraged  him  to  a  more  con- 
temptuous disdain  of  all  natures  less  coarse  than  his  own.     It  may  be 

160 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

doubted  if  he  was  ever  so  much  in  his  element  as  when  tauntingly  re- 
pelling the  last  despairing  claim  of  a  wretched  culprit,  and  sending 
him  to  Botany  Bay  or  the  gallows  with  an  insulting  jest.  Yet  this 
was  not  from  cruelty,  for  which  he  was  too  strong  and  too  jovial,  but 
from  cherished  coarseness."  Readers,  nevertheless,  who  are  at  all  ac- 
quainted with  the  social  history  of  Scotland  will  hardly  fail  to  have 
made  the  observation  that  Braxfield's  is  an  extreme  case  of  eighteenth- 
century  manners,  as  he  himself  was  an  eighteenth-century  personage 
(he  died  in  1799  in  his  seventy-eighth  year);  and  that  for  the  date  in 
which  the  story  is  cast  (18 14)  such  manners  are  somewhat  of  an  an- 
achronism. During  the  generation  contemporary  with  the  French 
Revolution  and  the  Napoleonic  wars, —  or  to  put  it  another  way,  the 
generation  that  elapsed  between  the  days  when  Scott  roamed  the 
country  as  a  High  School  and  University  student  and  those  when  he 
settled  in  the  fulness  of  fame  and  prosperity  at  Abbotsford, —  or  again 
(the  allusions  will  appeal  to  readers  of  the  admirable  Gait)  during  the 
intervals  between  the  first  and  the  last  provostry  of  Bailie  Pawkie  in 
the  borough  of  Gudetown,  or  between  the  earlier  and  the  final  minis- 
trations of  Mr.  Balwhidder  in  the  parish  of  Dalmailing, —  during  this 
period  a  great  softening  had  taken  place  in  Scottish  manners  generally, 
and  in  those  of  the  Bar  and  Bench  not  least.  "  Since  the  death  of 
Lord  Justice-Clerk  Macqueen  of  Braxfield,"  says  Lockhart,  writing 
about  1817,  "the  whole  exterior  of  judicial  deportment  has  been  quite 
altered."  A  similar  criticism  may  probably  hold  good  on  the  picture 
of  border  life  contained  in  the  chapter  concerning  the  Four  Black 
Brothers  of  Cauldstaneslap,  viz.,  that  it  rather  suggests  the  ways  of  an 
earlier  generation;  nor  have  I  any  clew  to  the  reasons  which  led 
Stevenson  to  choose  this  particular  date,  in  the  year  preceding  Water- 
loo, for  a  story  which,  in  regard  to  some  of  its  features  at  least,  might 
seem  more  naturally  placed  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  before. 

If  the  reader  seeks,  farther,  to  know  whether  the  scenery  of  Hermis- 
ton  can  be  identified  with  any  one  special  place  familiar  to  the  writer's 
early  experience,  the  answer,  I  think,  must  be  in  the  negative.  Rather 
it  is  distilled  from  a  number  of  different  haunts  and  associations  among 
the  moorlands  of  southern  Scotland.  In  the  dedication  and  in  a  letter 
to  me  he  indicates  the  Lammermuirs  as  the  scene  of  his  tragedy,  and 
Mrs.  Stevenson  (his  mother)  tells  me  that  she  thinks  he  was  inspired  by 
recollections  of  a  visit  paid  in  boyhood  to  an  uncle  living  at  a  remote 

161 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 

farmhouse  in  that  district  called  Overshiels,  in  the  parish  of  Stow.  But 
although  he  may  have  thought  of  the  Lammermuirs  in  the  first  instance, 
we  have  already  found  him  drawing  his  description  of  the  kirk  and 
manse  from  another  haunt  of  his  youth,  namely,  Glencorse  in  the 
Pentlands.  And  passages  in  chapters  v.  and  viii.  point  explicitly  to  a 
third  district,  that  is,  the  country  bordering  upon  Upper  Tweeddale 
and  the  headwaters  of  the  Clyde,  With  this  country  also  holiday  rides 
and  excursions  from  Peebles  had  made  him  familiar  as  a  boy:  and  this 
seems  certainly  the  most  natural  scene  of  the  story,  if  only  from  its 
proximity  to  the  proper  home  of  the  Elliotts,  which  of  course  is  in  the 
heart  of  the  Border,  especially  Teviotdale  and  Ettrick.  Some  of  the 
geographical  names  mentioned  are  clearly  not  meant  to  furnish  literal 
indications.  The  Spango,  for  instance,  is  a  water  running,  1  believe, 
not  into  the  Tweed,  but  into  the  Nith,  and  Crossmichael  as  the  name 
of  a  town  is  borrowed  from  Galloway. 

But  it  is  with  the  general  and  essential  that  the  artist  deals,  and 
questions  of  strict  historical  perspective  or  local  definition  are  beside 
the  mark  in  considering  his  work.  Nor  will  any  reader  expect,  or  be 
grateful  for,  comment  in  this  place  on  matters  which  are  more  properly 
to  the  point  —  on  the  seizing  and  penetrating  power  of  the  author's 
ripened  art  as  exhibited  in  the  foregoing  pages,  the  wide  range  of  char- 
acter and  emotion  over  which  he  sweeps  with  so  assured  a  hand,  his  vital 
poetry  of  vision  and  magic  of  presentment.  Surely  no  son  of  Scotland 
has  died  leaving  with  his  last  breath  a  worthier  tribute  to  the  land  he 
loved. 

Sidney  Colvw. 


I63 


GLOSSARY 


ae,  one. 

antinomian,  one  of  a  sect  which 
holds  that  under  the  Gospel 
dispensation  the  moral  law  is 
not  obligatory. 

Auld  Homie,  the  Devil. 

ballant,  ballad. 

bauchles,  brogues,  old  shoes. 

bees  in  their  bonnet,  fads. 

birling,  whirling. 

black- a -vised,  dark-complex- 
ioned. 

bonnet-laird,  small  landed  pro- 
prietor. 

bool,  ball. 

brae,  rising  ground. 

butt  end,  end  of  a  cottage, 

byre,  cow-house. 

ca',  drive. 
caller,  fresh. 
canna,  cannot. 
canny,  careful,  shrewd. 
cantie,  cheerful. 
carline,  an  old  woman. 
chalmer,  chamber. 
claes,  clothes. 
clamjamfry,  crowd. 
clavers,  idle  talk. 
cock-laird,  a  yeoman^ 


collieshangie,  turmoil, 
crack,  to  converse. 
cuddy,  donkey. 
cuist,  cast. 
cutty,  slut. 

daft,  mad,  frolicsome. 

dander,  to  saunter. 

danders,  cinders. 

daurna,  dare  not. 

deave,  to  deafen. 

demmy  brokens,  demi-broquins. 

dirdum,  vigour. 

disjaskit,  worn  out,  disreputable- 
looking. 

doer,  law  agent, 

dour,  hard. 

drumlie,  dark. 

dunting,  knocking. 

dule-tree,  the  tree  of  lamenta- 
tion, the  hanging  tree:  dule  is 
also  Scots  for  boundary,  and  it 
may  mean  the  boundary  tree, 
the  tree  on  which  the  baron  bung 
interlopers. 

dwaibly,  infirm,  rickety. 

earrand,  errand. 
ettercap,  vixen. 


fechting,  fighting. 


163 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 


feck,  quantity,  portion. 
feckless,  feehle,  powerless. 
fell,  strong  and  fiery. 
fey,  unlike  yourself,  strange,  as 

persons  are  observed  to  he  in 

the  hour  of  approaching  death 

or  disaster. 
fit,  foot. 
flyped,  turned  up,  turned  inside 

out. 
forgather,  to  fall  in  with. 
fule,  fool. 

fijshionless,  pithless,  weak. 
fyle,  to  soil,  to  defile. 
fylement,  obloquy,  defilement. 

gaed,  went. 

gey  an',  very. 

gigot,  leg  of  mutton. 

girzie,  lit.  diminutive  of  Gri^el, 
here  a  playful  nickname. 

glaur,  mud. 

glint,  glance,  sparkle. 

gloaming,  twilight. 

glower,  to  scowl. 

gobbets,  small  lumps. 

gowden,  golden. 

gowsty,  gusty. 

grat,  wept. 

grieve,  land-steward. 

guddle,  to  catch  fish  with  the 
hands  by  groping  under  the 
stones  or  banks. 

guid,  good. 

gumption,  common  sense,  Judg- 
ment, 

gurley,  stormy,  surly. 

gyte,  beside  itself. 


haddit,  held. 


hae,  have,  take. 

hale,  whole. 

heels  -  ower  -  hurdle,  heels  over 
head. 

hinney,  honey. 

hirstle,  to  bustle. 

hizzie,  wench. 

howl,  hovel. 

hunkered,  crouched. 

hypothec,  lit.  a  term  in  Scots  law 
meaning  the  security  given  by  a 
tenant  to  a  landlord,  as  furni- 
ture, produce,  etc. ;  by  metonymy 
and  colloquially,  "  the  whole 
structure,"  *'  the  whole  af- 
fair." 

idleset,  idleness. 

infeftment,  a  term  in  Scots  law 
originally  synonymous  with  in- 
vestiture, 

jeely-piece,  a  slice  of  bread  and 
jelly. 

jennipers,  juniper. 

jo,  sweetheart. 

justifeed,  executed,  made  the  vic- 
tim of  justice. 

jyle,  jail. 

kebbuck,  cheese. 
ken,  to  know. 
kenspeckle,  conspicuous, 
kilted,  tucked  up. 
kyte,  belly. 

laigh,  low. 

laird,  landed  proprietor, 

lane,  alone. 


164 


GLOSSARY 


lave,  rest,  remainder. 
lown,  lonely,  still. 
lynn,  cataract. 

macers,  officers  of  the  court  [cf. 
Guy  Mannering,  last  chapter.] 

maun,  must. 

menseful,  of  good  manners. 

mirk,  dark. 

misbegowk,  deception^  disap- 
pointment. 

mools,  mould,  earth. 

muckle,  much,  great,  big. 

my  lane,  by  myself. 

nowt,  black  cattle. 

palmering,  walking  infirmly. 
panel,  in  Scots  law,  the  accused 

person  in  a  criminal  action,  the 

prisoner. 
peel,  a  fortified  watch-tower. 
plew-stilts,  plough-handles. 
policy,  ornamental  grounds  of  a 

country  mansion. 
puddock,  frog. 

quean,  wench. 

riff-raff,  rabble. 
risping,  grating. 
rowt,  to  roar,  to  rant. 
rowth,  abundance. 
rudas,  haggard  old  woman. 
runt,  an  old  cow  past  breeding, 
opprobriously,  an  old  woman. 

sab,  sob. 

sanguishes,  sandwiches. 


sasine,  in  Scots  law,  the  act  of 
giving  legal  possession  of  feudal 
property,  or,  colloquially,  the 
deed  by  which  that  possession  is 
proved. 

sclamber,  to  scramble. 

sculduddery,  impropriety,  gross- 
ness. 

session,  the  Court  of  Session,  the 
supreme  court  of  Scotland. 

shauchling,  shuffling. 

shoo,  to  chase  gently. 

siller,  money. 

sinsyne,  since  then. 

skailing,  dispersing. 

skelp,  slap. 

skirling,  screaming. 

skreigh-o'-day,  daybreak. 

snash,  abuse. 

sneisty,  supercilious. 

sooth,  to  hum. 

speir,  to  ask. 

speldering,  sprawling. 

splairge,  to  splash. 

spunk,  spirit,  fire. 

steik,  to  shut. 

sugar-bool,  sugar-plum. 


tawpie,  a  slow,  foolish  slut. 

telling  you,  a  good  thing  for  you^ 

thir,  these. 

thrawn,  cross-grained. 

toon,  town. 

two-names,    local  sobriquets   in 

addition  to  patronymic. 
tyke,  dog. 


unchancy,  unlucky. 


165 


WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 


unco,    stranggf    fixiraordinarjf, 

very. 
upsitten,  imperiintnt, 
vivers,  visuals, 

waling,  choosing. 
warrandise,  toarrantf, 
waur,  xoorss 


weird,  destiny. 
whammle,  to  upset. 
whaup,  curlew. 

windlestrae,     crested    dog's-tail 
grass. 


yin,  on$. 


10$ 


THE  PLAYS  OF 
W.  E.  HENLEY  AND  R.  L  STEVENSON 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
W.  E.  Henley  and  R.  L.  Stevenson 

A II  rights  rtserved 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR 
THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

A  MELODRAMA  IN  FIVE  ACTS  AND  EIGHT  TABLEAUX 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


William  Brodib,  Deacon  of  the  Wrights,  Housebreaker  and  Master 

Carpenter. 
Old  Brodie,  the  Deacon's  Father. 
William  Lawson,  Procurator- Fiscal,  the  Deacon's  Uncle. 
Andrew  Ainslie,      ) 

Humphrey  Moore,   ?  Robbers  in  the  Deacon's  gang. 
George  Smith,         } 
Captain  Rivers,  an  English  Highwayman. 
Hunt,  A  Bow  Street  Runner. 
A  Doctor. 
Walter  Leslie. 

Mary  Brodie,  the  Deacon's  Sister. 
Jean  Watt,  the  Deacon's  Mistress. 

Vagabonds,  Officers  of  the  Watch,  Men-servants. 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  Edinburgh.  The  Time  is  towards  the  close  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century.  The  Action,  some  fifty  hours  long,  begins  at 
eight  p.  m.  on  Saturday  and  ends  before  midnight  on  Monday. 


Note. — Passages  suggested  for  omission  in  representation  are  enclosed 
in  square  brackets,  thus  [    ]. 


SYNOPSIS  OF  ACTS  AND   TABLEAUX 


ACT  1. 

Tableau  I The  Double  Life. 

Tableau  I! Hunt  the  Runner. 

Tableau  III Mother  Clarke's. 

ACT  II. 
Tableau  IV.     i Evil  and  Good. 

ACT  III. 

Tableau  V King's  Evidence. 

Tableau  VI Unmasked. 

ACT  IV. 
Tableau  VII The  Robbery. 

ACT  V. 
Tableau  VIII The  Open  Door. 


LONDON:  PRINCE'S  THEATRE 

2d  July  1884. 

Deacon  Brodie, Mr.  E.  J.  Henley. 

Walter  Leslie,       Mr.  Charles  Cartwrioht. 

William  Lawson, Mr,  John  Maclean. 

Andrew  Ainslie,      , Mr.  Fred.  Desmond. 

Humphrey  Moore, Mr.  Edmund  Grace. 

George  Smith, Mr.  Julian  Cross. 

Hunt, Mr.  Hubert  Akhurst. 

Old  Brodie, Mr-.  A.  Knight. 

Captain  Rivers, Mr.  Brandon  Thomas. 

Mary  Brodie, Miss  Lizzie  Williams. 

Jean  Watt, Miss  Minnie  Bell. 


MONTREAL 

26tb  September  1887. 

Deacon  Brodie,       Mr.  E.  J.  Henley. 

Walter  Leslie,        Mr.  Graham  Stewart. 

William  Lawson, Mr.  Edmund  Lyons. 

Andrew  Ainslie, Mr.  Fred.  Desmond. 

Humphrey  Moore, Mr.  Edmund  Grace. 

George  Smith, Mr.  Horatio  Saker. 

Hunt, Mr.  Henry  Vernon. 

Captain  Rivers, Mr.  Bruce  Philips. 

Mary  Brodie, Miss  Annie  Robe. 

Jean  Watt, Miss  Carrie  Cootb. 


ACT  I 


TABLEAU  I 
The  Double  Life 

The  Stage  represents  a  room  in  the  Deacon^ s  house,  furnished  partly 
as  a  sitting-,  partly  as  a  bed-room,  in  the  style  of  an  easy  burgess 
of  about  1 780.  C,  a  door;  L.  C,  a  second  and  smaller  door;  R.  C, 
practicable  window  ;  L.,  alcove,  supposed  to  contain  bed;  at  the 
back,  a  clothes-press  and  a  corner  cupboard  containing  bottles,  etc. 
Mary  Brodie  at  needlework;  Old  Brodie_,  a  paralytic,  in  wheeled 
chair,  at  the  fireside,  L. 

SCENE  I 
To  these  Leslie,  C 

Leslie.  May  I  come  in,  Mary  ? 

Mary.  Why  not  ? 

Leslie.  I  scarce  knew  where  to  find  you. 

Mary.  The  dad  and  I  must  have  a  corner,  must  we 
not  ?  So  when  my  brother's  friends  are  in  the  parlour 
he  allows  us  to  sit  in  his  room.  Tis  a  great  favour,  I 
can  tell  you;  the  place  is  sacred. 

Leslie.  Are  you  sure  that ' '  sacred  "  is  strong  enough  ? 

Mary.  You  are  satirical ! 

Leslie.  I  ?  And  with  regard  to  the  Deacon  ?  Believe 
'73 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

me,  I  am  not  so  ill-advised.  You  have  trained  me  well, 
and  I  feel  by  him  as  solemnly  as  a  true-born  Brodie. 

Mary.  And  now  you  are  impertinent!  Do  you  mean 
to  go  any  further  ?  We  are  a  fighting  race,  we  Brodies. 
Oh,  you  may  laugh,  sir!  But  'tis  no  child's  play  to  jest 
us  on  our  Deacon,  or,  for  that  matter,  on  our  Deacon's 
chamber  either.  It  was  his  father's  before  him:  he 
works  in  it  by  day  and  sleeps  in  it  by  night;  and  scarce 
anything  it  contains  but  is  the  labour  of  his  hands.  Do 
you  see  this  table,  Walter  ?  He  made  it  while  he  was 
yet  a  'prentice.  I  remember  how  I  used  to  sit  and 
watch  him  at  his  work.  It  would  be  grand,  I  thought, 
to  be  able  to  do  as  he  did,  and  handle  edge-tools  with- 
out cutting  my  fingers,  and  getting  my  ears  pulled  for 
a  meddlesome  minx!  He  used  to  give  me  his  mallet  to 
keep  and  his  nails  to  hold;  and  didn't  I  fly  when  he 
called  for  them !  and  wasn't  I  proud  to  be  ordered  about 
with  them !  And  then,  you  know,  there  is  the  tall  cabi- 
net yonder;  that  it  was  that  proved  him  the  first  of 
Edinburgh  joiners,  and  worthy  to  be  their  Deacon  and 
their  head.  And  the  father's  chair,  and  the  sister's 
workbox,  and  the  dear  dead  mother's  footstool  —  what 
are  they  all  but  proofs  of  the  Deacon's  skill,  and  tokens 
of  the  Deacon's  care  for  those  about  him  ? 

Leslie.  I  am  all  penitence.  Forgive  me  this  last  time, 
and  1  promise  you  I  never  will  again. 

Mary.  Candidly,  now,  do  you  think  you  deserve 
forgiveness  ? 

Leslie.  Candidly,  I  do  not. 

Mary.  Then  I  suppose  you  must  have  it.  What  have 
you  done  with  Willie  and  my  uncle  ? 

Leslie.  I  left  them  talking  deeply.  The  dear  old 
i74 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

Procurator  has  not  much  thought  just  now  for  any- 
thing but  those  mysterious  burglaries 

Mary.  I  know ! 

Leslie.  Still,  all  of  him  that  is  not  magistrate  and  of- 
ficial is  politician  and  citizen ;  and  he  has  been  striving 
his  hardest  to  undermine  the  Deacon's  principles,  and 
win  the  Deacon's  vote  and  interest. 

Mary.  They  are  worth  having,  are  they  not  ? 

Leslie.  The  Procurator  seems  to  think  that  having 
them  makes  the  difference  between  winning  and  losing. 

Mary.  Did  he  say  so  ?  You  may  rely  upon  it  that 
he  knows.  There  are  not  many  in  Edinburgh  who  can 
match  with  our  Will. 

Leslie.  There  shall  be  as  many  as  you  please,  and 
not  one  more. 

Mary.  How  I  should  like  to  have  heard  you!  What 
did  uncle  say  ?  Did  he  speak  of  the  Town  Council 
again  ?  Did  he  tell  Will  what  a  wonderful  Bailie  he 
would  make  ?    O  why  did  you  come  away  ? 

Leslie.  I  could  not  pretend  to  listen  any  longer.  The 
election  is  months  off  yet;  and  if  it  were  not  —  if  it 
were  tramping  upstairs  this  moment — drums,  flags, 
cockades,  guineas,  candidates,  and  all!  —  how  should 
I  care  for  it  ?   What  are  Whig  and  Tory  to  me  ? 

Mary.  O  fie  on  you !  It  is  for  every  man  to  concern 
himself  in  the  common  weal.  Mr.  Leslie  —  Leslie  of 
the  Craig! — should  know  that  much  at  least. 

Leslie.  And  be  a  politician  like  the  Deacon !  All  in 
good  time,  but  not  now.  I  hearkened  while  I  could, 
and  when  I  could  no  more  I  slipped  out  and  followed 
jny  heart.     1  hoped  I  should  be  welcome. 

Mary.   I  suppose  you  mean  to  be  unkind. 
175 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Leslie.  Tit  for  tat.  Did  you  not  ask  me  why  I  came 
away  ?  And  is  it  usual  for  a  young  lady  to  say  **  Mr." 
to  the  man  she  means  to  marry  ? 

Mary.  That  is  for  the  young  lady  to  decide,  sir. 

Leslie.  And  against  that  judgment  there  shall  be  no 
appeal  ? 

Mary.  O,  if  you  mean  to  argue! 

Leslie.  I  do  not  mean  to  argue.  I  am  content  to  love 
and  be  loved.  I  think  I  am  the  happiest  man  in  the 
world. 

Mary.  That  is  as  it  should  be;  for  I  am  the  happiest 
girl. 

Leslie.  Why  not  say  the  happiest  wife  ?  I  have  your 
word,  and  you  have  mine.     Is  not  that  enough  ? 

Mary.  Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  ?  Did  I  not  tell 
you  how  it  must  be  as  my  brother  wills  ?  I  can  do  only 
as  he  bids  me. 

Leslie.  Then  you  have  not  spoken  as  you  promised? 

Mary.  I  have  been  too  happy  to  speak. 

Leslie.  I  am  his  friend.  Precious  as  you  are,  he  will 
trust  you  to  me.  He  has  but  to  know  how  I  love  you, 
Mary,  and  how  your  life  is  all  in  your  love  of  me,  to 
give  us  his  blessing  with  a  full  heart. 

Mary.  I  am  sure  of  him.  It  is  that  which  makes  my 
happiness  complete.  Even  to  our  marriage  I  should 
find  it  hard  to  say  "  Yes  "  when  he  said  **  No." 

Leslie.  Your  father  is  trying  to  speak.  I  '11  wager 
he  echoes  you. 

Mary  {to  Old  Brodie).  My  poor  dearie!  Do  you 
want  to  say  anything  to  me  ?  No  ?  Is  it  to  Mr.  Leslie, 
then? 

Leslie.  I  am  listening,  Mr.  Brodie. 
176 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Mary.  What  is  it,  daddie  ? 

Old  Brodie.  My  son  —  the  Deacon  —  Deacon  Brodie 
—  the  first  at  school. 

Leslie.  I  know  it,  Mr.  Brodie.  Was  I  not  the  last  in 
the  same  class?  {To  Mary.)  But  he  seems  to  have 
forgotten  us. 

Mary.  O  yes!  his  mind  is  wellnigh  gone.  He  will 
sit  for  hours  as  you  see  him,  and  never  speak  nor  stir 
but  at  the  touch  of  Will's  hand  or  the  sound  of  Will's 
name. 

Leslie.  It  is  so  good  to  sit  beside  you.  By  and  by  it 
will  be  always  like  this.  You  will  not  let  me  speak  to 
the  Deacon  ?  You  are  fast  set  upon  speaking  yourself? 
I  could  be  so  eloquent,  Mary  —  I  would  touch  him.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  I  fear  to  trust  my  happiness  to  any 
one  else  —  even  to  you! 

Mary.  He  must  hear  of  my  good  fortune  from  none 
but  me.  And  besides,  you  do  not  understand.  We 
are  not  like  familes,  we  Brodies.  We  are  so  clannish, 
we  hold  so  close  together. 

Leslie.  You  Brodies,  and  your  Deacon ! 

Old  Brodie.  Deacon  of  his  craft,  sir — Deacon  of  the 
Wrights  —  my  son !  If  his  mother  —  his  mother  —  had 
but  lived  to  see! 

Mary.  You  hear  how  he  runs  on.  A  word  about 
my  brother  and  he  catches  it.  'Tis  as  if  he  were  awake 
in  his  poor  blind  way  to  all  the  Deacon's  care  for  him 
and  all  the  Deacon's  kindness  to  me.  I  believe  he  only 
lives  in  the  thought  of  the  Deacon.  There,  it  is  not  so 
long  since  I  was  one  with  him.  But  indeed  I  think  we 
are  all  Deacon-mad,  we  Brodies.  Are  we  not,  daddie 
dear? 

177 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Brodie  {without y  and  entering).  You  are  a  mighty 
magistrate,  Procurator,  but  you  seem  to  have  met  your 
match. 

SCENE   II 

To  these,  Brodie  and  Lawson 

Mary  (curtseying).  So,  uncle!  you  have  honoured  us 
at  last. 

Lawson.  Quam  primum,  my  dear,  quam  primum. 

Brodie.  Well,  father,  do  you  know  me  ?  (He  sits  be- 
side his  father  and  takes  his  hand.) 

[Old  Brodie.  William  —  ay  —  Deacon.  Greater  man 
—  than  —  his  father. 

Brodie.  You  see.  Procurator,  the  news  is  as  fresh  to 
him  as  it  was  five  years  ago.  He  was  struck  down 
before  he  gof  the  Deaconship,  and  lives  his  lost  life  in 
mine. 

Lawson.  Ay,  I  mind.  He  was  aye  ettling  after  a  bit 
handle  to  his  name.  He  was  kind  of  hurt  when  first 
they  made  me  Procurator.] 

Mary.  And  what  have  you  been  talking  of? 

Lawson.  Just  o*  thae  robberies,  Mary.  Baith  as  a 
burgher  and  a  Crown  offeecial,  I  tak'  the  maist  absorb- 
ing interest  in  thae  robberies. 

Leslie.  Egad,  Procurator,  and  so  do  I. 

Broi5ie  (with  a  quick  look  at  Leslie).  A  dilettante  in- 
terest, doubtless!    See  what  it  is  to  be  idle. 

Leslie.  Faith,  Brodie,  I  hardly  know  how  to  style  it. 

Brodie.  At  any  rate,  'tis  not  the  interest  of  a  victim, 
or  we  should  certainly  have  known  of  it  before;  nor  a 

178 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

practical  tool-mongering  interest,  like  my  own;  nor  an 
interest  professional  and  official,  like  the  Procurator's. 
You  can  answer  for  that,  I  suppose  ? 

Leslie.  I  think  I  can ;  if  for  no  more.  It's  an  interest 
of  my  own,  you  see,  and  is  best  described  as  indescrib- 
able, and  of  no  manner  of  moment  to  anybody.  [It 
will  take  no  hurt  if  we  put  off  its  discussion  till  a  month 
of  Sundays.] 

Brodie.  You  are  more  fortunate  than  you  deserve. 
What  do  you  say,  Procurator  ? 

Lawson.  Ay  is  he!  There's  no  a  house  in  Edin- 
burgh safe.  The  law  is  clean  helpless,  clean  helpless! 
A  week  syne  it  was  auld  Andra  Simpson's  in  the  Lawn- 
market.  Then,  naething  would  set  the  catamarans  but 
to  forgather  privily  wi'  the  Provost's  ain  butler,  and 
tak'  unto  themselves  the  Provost's  ain  plate.  And  the 
day,  information  was  laid  before  me  offeecially  that  the 
limmers  had  made  infraction,  vt  et  clam,  into  Leddy 
Mar'get  Dalziel's,  and  left  her  leddyship  wi'  no  sae 
muckle's  a  spune  to  sup  her  parritch  wi'.  It's  unbe- 
lieveable,  it's  awful,  it's  anti-christian ! 

Mary.  If  you  only  knew  them,  uncle,  what  an  ex- 
ample you  would  make !  But  tell  me,  is  it  not  strange 
that  men  should  dare  such  things,  in  the  midst  of  a 
city,  and  nothing,  nothing  be  known  of  them — nothing 
at  all  ? 

Leslie.  Little,  indeed!  But  we  do  know  that  there 
are  several  in  the  gang,  and  that  one  at  least  is  an  un- 
rivalled workman. 

Lawson.  Ye're  right,  sir;  ye're  vera  right,  Mr.  Leslie. 
It  had  been  deponed  to  me  offeecially  that  no  a  trades- 
man —  no  the  Deacon  here  himsel'  —  could  have  made 

179 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

a  cleaner  job  wi'  Andra  Simpson's  shutters.  And  as 
for  the  lock  o'  the  bank  —  but  that's  an  auld  sang. 

Brodie.  I  think  you  believe  too  much,  Procurator. 
Rumour's  an  ignorant  jade,  I  tell  you.  I've  had  occasion 
to  see  some  little  of  their  handiwork  —  broken  cabinets, 
broken  shutters,  broken  doors  —  and  I  find  them  bung- 
lers.    Why,  I  could  do  it  better  myself! 

Leslie.  Gad,  Brodie,  you  and  I  might  go  into  partner- 
ship. I  back  myself  to  watch  outside,  and  I  suppose 
you  could  do  the  work  of  skill  within  ? 

Brodie.  An  opposition  company  ?  Leslie,  your  mind 
is  full  of  good  things.  Suppose  we  begin  to-night,  and 
give  the  Procurator's  house  the  honours  of  our  inno- 
cence ? 

Mary.  You  could  do  anything,  you  two! 

Lawson.  Ony  way.  Deacon,  ye'd  put  your  ill-gotten 
gains  to  a  right  use;  they  might  come  by  the  wind  but 
they  wouldna  gang  wi'  the  water;  and  that's  aye  a 
solatium,  as  we  say.  If  I  am  to  be  robbit,  I  would  like 
to  be  robbit  wi'  decent  folk;  and  no  think  o'  my  bonnie 
clean  siller  dirling  among  jads  and  dicers.  [Faith, 
William,  the  mair  I  think  on't,  the  mair  I'm  o'  Mr. 
Leslie's  mind.  Come  the  night,  or  come  the  morn,  and 
I'se  gie  ye  my  free  permission,  and  lend  ye  a  hand  in 
at  the  window  forbye! 

Brodie.  Come,  come,  Procurator,  lead  not  our  poor 
clay  into  temptation.     (Leslie  and  Mary  talk  apart,) 

Lawson.  I'm  no  muckle  afraid  for  your  puir  clay, 
as  ye  ca't.]  But  hark  i'  your  ear:  ye're  likely,  joking 
apart,  to  be  gey  and  sune  in  partnership  wi'  Mr.  Leslie. 
He  and  Mary  are  gey  and  pack,  a'body  can  see  that 

180 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

[Brodie.  *  *  DafFin'  and  want  o*  wit "  —  you  know  the 
rest. 

Lawson.  yidi,  scivi,  et  audivi,  as  we  say  in  a  Sasine, 
William.]  Man,  because  my  wig's  pouthered  do  you 
think  I  havena  a  green  heart  ?  I  was  aince  a  lad  my- 
sel',  and  I  ken  fine  by  the  glint  o'  the  e'e  when  a  lad's 
fain  and  a  lassie's  willing.  And,  man,  it's  the  town's 
talk;  communis  error  fit  jus,  ye  ken. 

[Old  Brodie.  Oh! 

Lawson.  See,  ye're  hurting  your  faither's  hand. 

Brodie.  Dear  dad,  it  is  not  good  to  have  an  ill-tem- 
pered son. 

Lawson.  What  the  deevil  ails  ye  at  the  match  ?  'Od, 
man,  he  has  a  nice  bit  divot  o'  Fife  corn-land,  I  can  tell 
ye,  and  some  Bordeaux  wine  in  his  cellar!  But  I 
needna  speak  o'  the  Bordeaux;  ye'll  ken  the  smack  o't 
as  weel's  I  do  mysel' ;  ony way  it's  grand  wine.  Tan- 
turn  et  tale.  I  tell  ye  the  pro's,  find  you  the  con's,  if 
ye're  able.] 

Brodie.  [I  am  sorry.  Procurator,  but  I  must  be  short 
with  you.]  You  are  talking  in  the  air,  as  lawyers  will. 
I  prefer  to  drop  the  subject  [and  it  will  displease  me  if 
you  return  to  it  in  my  hearing]. 

Leslie.  At  four  o'clock  to-morrow?  At  my  house? 
{to  Mary). 

Mary.  As  soon  as  church  is  done.     {Exit  Mary.) 

Lawson.  Ye  needna  be  sae  high  and  mighty,  ony- 
way. 

Brodie.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Procurator.  But  we  Bro- 
dies  —  you  know  our  failings!  [A  bad  temper  and  a 
humour  of  privacy.] 

i8i 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Lawson.  Weel,  I  maun  be  about  my  business.  Bui 
I  could  tak'  a  doch-an-dorach,  William ;  superflua  non 
nocent,  as  we  say;  an  extra  dram  hurts  naebody,  Mr. 
Leslie. 

Brodie  {with  bottle  and  glasses).  Here's  your  old 
friend,  Procurator.  Help  yourself,  Leslie.  Oh  no, 
thank  you,  not  any  for  me.  You  strong  people  have 
the  advantage  of  me  there.  With  my  attacks,  you 
know,  I  must  always  live  a  bit  of  a  hermit's  life. 

Lawson.  'Od,  man,  that's  fine;  that's  health  o'  mind 
and  body.  Mr.  Leslie,  here's  to  you,  sir.  'Od,  it's 
harder  to  end  than  to  begin  wi'  stuff  like  that. 

SCENE  III 
To  these,  Smith  and  Jean,  C 

Smith.  Is  the  king  of  the  castle  in,  please  ? 

Lawson  {aside).  Lord's  sake,  it's  Smith ! 

Brodie  {to  Smith).  I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

Smith.  1  beg  yours,  sir.  If  you  please,  sir,  is  Mr. 
Brodie  at  home,  sir  ? 

Brodie.  What  do  want  with  him,  my  man? 

Smith.  I've  a  message  for  him,  sir,  a  job  of  work, 
sir! 

Brodie  {to  Smith;  referring  to  Jean).  And  who  is 
this? 

Jean.  I  am  here  for  the  Procurator,  about  my  rent. 
There's  nae  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Lawson.  It's  just  an  honest  wife  I  let  a  flat  to  in  Lib- 
berton's  Wynd.     It'll  be  for  the  rent  ? 

Jean.  Just  that,  sir. 

1 8a 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Lawson.  Weel,  ye  can  just  bide  here  a  wee,  and  I'll 
step  down  the  road  to  my  office  wi'  ye.  (Exeunt 
Brodie,  Lawson,  Leslie,  C.) 

SCENE  IV 

Smith,  Jean  Watt,  Old  Brodie 

Smith  {bowing  them  out).  Your  humble  and  most 
devoted  servant,  George  Smith,  Esquire.  And  so  this 
is  the  garding,  is  it  ?  And  this  is  the  style  of  horticul- 
ture? Ha,  it  is!  (At  the  mirror.)  In  that  case 
George's  mother  bids  him  bind  his  hair.  (Kisses  his 
hand.)  My  dearest  Duchess, —  ( To  Jean.)  I  say,  Jean, 
there's  a  good  deal  of  difference  between  this  sort  of 
thing  and  the  way  we  does  it  in  Libberton's  Wynd. 

Jean.  I  daursay.     And  what  wad  ye  expeck  ? 

Smith.  Ah,  Jean,  if  you'd  cast  affection's  glance  on 
this  poor  but  honest  soger!  George  Lord  S.  is  not  the 
nobleman  to  cut  the  object  of  his  flame  before  the  giddy 
throng;  nor  to  keep  her  boxed  up  in  an  old  mouse- 
trap, while  he  himself  is  revelling  in  purple  splendours 
like  these.  He  didn't  know  you,  Jean :  he  was  afraid 
to.     Do  you  call  that  a  man  ?    Try  a  man  that  is. 

Jean.  Geordie  Smith,  ye  ken  vera  weel  I'll  tak'  nane  o* 
that  sort  of  talk  frae  you.  And  what  kind  o'  a  man  are 
you  to  even  yoursel'  to  the  likes  o'  him  ?  He's  a  gentleman. 

Smith.  Ah,  ain't  he  just!  And  don't  he  live  up  to  it? 
I  say,  Jean,  feel  of  this  chair. 

Jean.  My  I  look  at  yon  bed ! 

Smith.  The  carpet  too !  Axminster,  by  the  bones  of 
Oliver  Cromwell ! 

183 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Jean.  What  a  expense! 

Smith.  Hey,  brandy  I  The  deuce  of  the  grape!    Have 
a  toothful,  Mrs.  Watt.     [(Sings)  — 

"  Says  Bacchus  to  Venus, 

There's  brandy  between  us, 
And  the  cradle  of  love  is  the  bowl,  the  bowl!  "J 


Jean.  Nane  for  me,  I  thank  ye,  Mr.  Smith. 

Smith.  What  brings  the  man  from  stuff  like  this  to 
rotgut  and  spittoons  at  Mother  Clarke's ;  but  ah,  George, 
you  was  born  for  a  higher  spear!  And  so  was  you, 
Mrs.  Watt,  though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't.  (Seeing  Old 
Brodie  for  the  first  time.)     Hullo!  it's  a  man! 

Jean.  Thonder  in  the  chair.  ( They  go  to  look  at  him, 
their  backs  to  the  door,) 

George.  Is  he  alive  ? 

Jean.  I  think  there's  something  wrong  with  him. 

George.  And  how  was  you  to-morrow,  my  valued 
old  gentleman,  eh  ? 

Jean.  Dinna  mak'  a  mock  o'  him,  Geordie. 

Old  Brodie.  My  son  —  the  Deacon  —  Deacon  of  his 
trade. 

Jean.  He'll  be  his  feyther.  (Hunt  appears  at  door  C, 
and  stands  looking  on.) 

Smith.  The  Deacon's  old  man!  Well,  he  couldn't  ex- 
pect to  have  his  quiver  full  of  sich,  could  he,  Jean  ?  (7b 
Old  Brodie.)  Ah,  my  Christian  soldier,  if  you  had,  the 
world  would  have  been  more  varigated.  Mrs.  Deakin 
(to  Jean),  let  me  introduce  you  to  your  dear  papa. 

Jean.  Think  shame  to  yoursel' !  This  is  the  Deacon's 
house;  you  and  me  shouldna  be  here  by  rights;  and  if 

184 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

we  are,  it's  the  least  we  can  do  to  behave  dacent 
[This  is  no  the  way  ye'II  mak'  me  like  ye.] 
Smith.  All  right,  Duchess.     Don't  be  angry. 


SCENE  V 

To  these.  Hunt,  C.  {He  steals  down,  and  claps  each  one 
suddenly  on  the  shoulder) 

Hunt.  Is  there  a  gentleman  here  by  the  name  of  Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal  ? 

Smith  {pulling  himself  together),    D n  it,  Jerry, 

what  do  you  mean  by  startling  an  old  customer  like 
that? 

Hunt.  What,  my  brave  un'  ?  You're  the  very  party 
I  was  looking  for! 

Smith.  There's  nothing  out  against  me  this  time  ? 

Hunt.  I'll  take  odds  there  is.  But  it  ain't  in  my 
hands.  {To  Old  Brodie.)  You'll  excuse  me,  old  gen- 
tleman ? 

Smith.  Ah,  well,  if  it's  all  in  the  way  of  friendship! 
...  I  say,  Jean,  [you  and  me  had  best  be  on  the 
toddle].     We  shall  be  late  for  church. 

Hunt.  Lady,  George? 

Smith.  It's  a yes,  it's  a  lady.     Come  along,  Jean. 

Hunt.  A  Mrs.  Deacon,  I  believe  ?  [That  was  the 
name,  I  think?]  Won't  Mrs.  Deacon  let  me  have  a 
queer  at  her  phiz  ? 

Jean  {unmuffling).  I've  naething  to  be  ashamed  of. 
My  name's  Mistress  Watt;  I'm  weel  kennt  at  the  Wynd 
heid;  there's  naething  again  me. 

Hunt.  No,  to  be  sure,  there  ain't;  and  why  clap  on 
185 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

the  blinkers,  my  dear  ?  You  that  has  a  face  like  a  rose, 
and  with  a  cove  like  Jerry  Hunt  that  might  be  your 
born  father?  [But  all  this  don't  tell  me  about  Mr.  Pro- 
curator-Fiscal.] 

George  {in  an  agony).  Jean,  Jean,  we  shall  be  late. 
{Going  with  attempted  swagger,)    Well,  ta-ta,  Jerry. 

SCENE  VI 

To  these,  C,  Brodie  and  Lawson  {greatcoat y 
muffler y  lantern) 

Lawson  {from  the  door).  Come  your  ways,  Mistress 
Watt. 

Jean.  That's  the  Fiscal  himsel'. 

Hunt.  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  I  believe  ? 

Lawson.  That's  me.     Who'll  you  be  ? 

Hunt.  Hunt  the  Runner,  sir;  Hunt  from  Bow  Street; 
English  warrant. 

Lawson.  There's  a  place  for  a'  things,  officer.  Come 
your  ways  to  my  office,  with  me  and  this  guid  wife. 

Brodie  {a&ide  to  Jean,  as  she  passes  with  a  curtesy). 
How  dare  you  be  here  ?  {Aloud  to  Smith.)  Wait  you 
here,  my  man. 

Smith.  If  you  please,  sir.     (Brodie  ^o^  outt  C.) 

SCENE  VII 

Brodie,  Smith 

Brodie.  What  the  devil  brings  you  here! 
Smith.  Cowfound  it,  Deakin !  Not  rusty  ? 
[Brodie.  And  not  you  only :  Jean  too!  Are  you  mad  ? 
1 86 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Smith.  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say,  Deakin,  that 
you  have  been  stodged  by  G.  Smith,  Esquire  ?  Plummy 
old  George  ?] 

Brodie.  There  was  my  uncle  the  Procurator 

Smith.  The  Fiscal  ?    He  don't  count. 

Brodie.  What  d'ye  mean  ? 

Smith.  Well,  Deakin,  since  Fiscal  Lawson's  Nunkey 
Lawson,  and  it's  all  in  the  family  way,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  Nunkey  Lawson's  a  customer  of 
George's.  We  give  Nunkey  Lawson  a  good  deal  of 
brandy — G.  S.  and  Go's  celebrated  Nantz. 

Brodie.  What!  does  he  buy  that  smuggled  trash  of 
yours  ? 

Smith.  Well,  we  don't  call  it  smuggled  in  the  trade, 
Deakin.  It's  a  wink,  and  King  George's  picter  between 
G.  S.  and  the  Nunks. 

Brodie.  Gad!  that's  worth  knowing.  O  Procurator, 
Procurator,  is  there  no  such  thing  as  virtue  ?  [A lions  ! 
It's  enough  to  cure  a  man  of  vice  for  this  world  and  the 
other.]  But  hark  you  hither.  Smith;  this  is  all  damned 
well  in  its  way,  but  it  don't  explain  what  brings  you 
here. 

Smith.  I've  trapped  a  pigeon  for  you. 

Brodie.  Can't  you  pluck  him  yourself? 

Smith.  Not  me.  He's  too  flash  in  the  feather  for  a 
simple  nobleman  like  George  Lord  Smith.  It's  the 
great  Capting  Starlight,  fresh  in  from  York.  [He's  ex- 
ercised his  noble  art  all  the  way  from  here  to  London. 
*'  Stand  and  deliver,  stap  my  vitals!  "]  And  the  north 
road  is  no  bad  lay,  Deakin. 

Brodie.  Flush  ? 

Smith  {mimicking,  "The  graziers,  split  me!  A 
187 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

mail,  stap  my  vitals!  and  seven  demned  farmers,  by  the 
Lard  —  " 

Brodie.  By  Gad! 

Smith.  Good  for  trade,  ain't  it?  And  we  thought, 
Deakin,  the  Badger  and  me,  that  coins  being  ever  on 
the  vanish,  and  you  not  over  sweet  on  them  there 
lovely  little  locks  at  Leslie's,  and  them  there  bigger  and 
uglier  marine  stores  at  the  Excise  Office  .  .  . 

Brodie  (impassible.)  Go  on. 

Smith.  Worse  luck!  .  .  .  We  thought,  me  and  the 
Badger,  you  know,  that  maybe  you'd  like  to  exercise 
your  helbow  with  our  free  and  galliant  horseman. 

Brodie.  The  old  move,  I  presume  ?  the  double  set  of 
dice? 

Smith.  That's  the  rig,  Deakin.  What  you  drop  on 
the  square  you  pick  up  again  on  the  cross.  [Just  as 
you  did  with  G.  S.  and  Go's  own  agent  and  corre- 
spondent, the  Admiral  from  Nantz.]  You  always  was 
a  neat  hand  with  the  bones,  Deakin. 

Brodie.  The  usual  terms,  I  suppose  ? 

Smith.  The  old  discount,  Deakin.  Ten  in  the  pound 
for  you,  and  the  rest  for  your  jolly  companions  every 
one.     [That's  the  way  we  does  it!] 

Brodie.  Who  has  the  dice  ? 

Smith.  Our  mutual  friend,  the  Candleworm. 

Brodie.  You  mean  Ainslie  ?  —  We  trust  that  creature 
too  much,  Geordie. 

Smith.  He's  all  right.  Marquis.  He  wouldn't  lay  a 
finger  on  his  own  mother.  Why,  he's  no  more  guile 
in  him  than  a  set  of  sheep's  trotters.' 

[Brodie.  You  think  so  ?  Then  see  he  don't  cheat  you 
over  the  dice,  and  give  you  light  for  loaded.     See  to 

188 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

that,  George,  see  to  that;  and  you  may  count  the  Cap- 
tain as  bare  as  his  last  grazier. 

Smith.  The  Black  Flag  for  ever!  George'll  trot  him 
round  to  Mother  Clarke's  in  two  twos.]  How  long'll 
you  be  ? 

Brodie.  The  time  to  lock  up  and  go  to  bed,  and  I'll 
be  with  you.     Can  you  find  your  way  out  ? 

Smith.  Bloom  on,  my  Sweet  William,  in  peaceful 
array.     Ta-ta. 


SCENE  VIII 
Brodie,  Old  Brodie  ;  to  whom,  Mary 

Mary.  O  Willie,  1  am  glad  you  did  not  go  with  them. 
I  have  something  to  tell  you.  If  you  knew  how  happy 
I  am,  you  would  clap  your  hands,  Will.  But  come, 
sit  you  down  there,  and  be  my  good  big  brother,  and 
I  will  kneel  here  and  take  your  hand.  We  must  keep 
close  to  dad,  and  then  he  will  feel  happiness  in  the  air. 
The  poor  old  love,  if  we  could  only  tell  him !  But  I 
sometimes  think  his  heart  has  gone  to  heaven  already, 
and  takes  a  part  in  all  our  joys  and  sorrows;  and  it  is 
only  his  poor  body  that  remains  here,  helpless  and  ig- 
norant. Come,  Will,  sit  you  down,  and  ask  me  ques- 
tions —  or  guess  —  that  will  be  better,  guess. 

Brodie.  Not  to-night,  Mary;  not  to-night.  I  have 
other  fish  to  fry,  and  they  won't  wait. 

Mary.  Not  one  minute  for  your  sister?  One  little 
minute  for  your  little  sister  ? 

Brodie.  Minutes  are  precious,  Mary.  I  have  to  work 
for  all  of  us,  and  the  clock  is  always  busy.     They  are 

189 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

waiting  for  me  even  now.  Help  me  with  the  dad's 
chair.  And  then  to  bed,  and  dream  happy  things. 
And  to-morrow  morning  I  will  hear  your  news  —  your 
good  news;  it  must  be  good,  you  look  so  proud  and 
glad.     But  to-night  it  cannot  be. 

Mary.  I  hate  your  business  —  I  hate  all  business.  To 
think  of  chairs,  and  tables,  and  footrules,  all  dead  and 
wooden  —  and  cold  pieces  of  money  with  the  King's 
ugly  head  on  them ;  and  here  is  your  sister,  your  pretty 
sister,  if  you  please,  with  something  to  tell,  which  she 
would  not  tell  you  for  the  world,  and  would  give  the 
world  to  have  you  guess,  and  you  won't  ? — Not  you! 
For  business!  Fie,  Deacon  Brodie!  But  I'm  too  happy 
to  find  fault  with  you. 

Brodie.  "And  me  a  Deacon,"  as  the  Procurator 
would  say. 

Mary.  No  such  thing,  sir!  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of 
you  —  nor  a  bit  angry  neither.  Give  me  a  kiss,  and 
promise  me  hours  and  hours  to-morrow  morning. 

Brodie.  All  day  long  to-morrow,  if  you  like. 

Mary.  Business  or  none? 

Brodie.  Business  or  none,  little  sister!  I'll  make  time, 
I  promise  you;  and  there's  another  kiss  for  surety. 
Come  along.  ( They  proceed  to  push  out  the  chair,  L.  C. ) 
The  wine  and  wisdom  of  this  evening  have  given  me 
one  of  my  headaches,  and  I'm  in  haste  for  bed.  You'll 
be  good,  won't  you,  and  see  they  make  no  noise,  and 
let  me  sleep  my  fill  to-morrow  morning  till  I  wake  ? 

Mary.  Poor  Will!  How  selfish  I  must  have  seemed  1 
You  should  have  told  me  sooner,  and  I  wouldn't  have 
worried  you.     Come  along. 

(She  goes  out,  pushing  chair.) 
190 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

SCENE  IX 

Brodie 

{He  closes,  locks,  and  double-bolts  both  doors) 

Brodie.  Now  for  one  of* the  Deacon's  headaches! 
Rogues  all,  rogues  all !  {Goes  to  clothes-press,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  change  his  coat.)  On  with  the  new  coat  and  into 
the  new  life!  Down  with  the  Deacon  and  up  with  the 
robber!  {Changing  neck-band  and  ruffles.)  Eh  God! 
how  still  the  house  is!  There's  something  in  hypocrisy 
after  all.  If  we  were  as  good  as  we  seem,  what  would 
the  world  be  ?  [The  city  has  its  vizard  on,  and  we  — 
at  night  we  are  our  naked  selves.  Trysts  are  keeping, 
bottles  cracking,  knives  are  stripping;  and  here  is  Dea- 
con Brodie  flaming  forth  the  man  of  men  he  is!] — How 
still  it  is!  .  .  .  My  father  and  Mary  —  Well!  the  day 
for  them,  the  night  for  me;  the  grimy  cynical  night  that 
makes  all  cats  grey,  and  all  honesties  of  one  complex- 
ion. Shall  a  man  not  have  half  2i  life  of  his  own.?  — 
not  eight  hours  out  of  twenty-four?  [Eight  shall  he 
have  should  he  dare  the  pit  of  Tophet]  {Takes  out 
money.)  Where's  the  blunt  ?  I  must  be  cool  to-night, 
or  .  .  .  steady,  Deacon,  you  must  win;  damn  you, 
you  must!  You  must  win  back  the  dowry  that  you've 
stolen,  and  marry  your  sister,  and  pay  your  debts,  and 
gull  the  world  a  little  longer!  {As  he  blows  out  the 
lights.)  The  Deacon's  going  to  bed  —  the  poor  sick 
Deacon !  AUons  !  { Throws  up  the  window,  and  looks 
out. )  Only  the  stars  to  see  me !  {Addressing  the  bed. ) 
Lie  there.  Deacon!  sleep  and  be  well  to-morrow.     As 

191 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

for  me,  I'm  a  man  once  more  till  morning.     {Gets  out 
of  the  window.) 

TABLEAU   II 

Hunt  the  Runner 

The  Scent  represents  the  Procurator's  Office 

SCENE  I 
Lawson,  Hunt 

[Lawson  {entering).  Step  your  ways  in,  Officer. 
{At  wing.)  Mr.  Carfrae,  give  a  chair  to  yon  decent  wife 
that  cam'  in  wi'  me.     Nae  news  ? 

A  VOICE  without.  Naething,  sir. 

Lawson  {sitting.)  Weel,  Officer,  and  what  can  I  do 
for  you  ?] 

Hunt.  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  saying,  I've  an  English 
warrant  for  the  apprehension  of  one  Jemmy  Rivers, 
alias  Captain  Starlight,  now  at  large  within  your 
jurisdiction. 

Lawson.  That'll  be  the  highwayman  ? 

Hunt.  That  same,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal.  The  Cap- 
tain's given  me  a  hard  hunt  of  it  this  time.  I  dropped 
on  his  marks  first  at  Huntingdon,  but  he  was  away 
North,  and  I  had  to  up  and  after  him.  I  heard  of  him 
all  along  the  York  road,  for  he's  a  light  hand  on  the 
pad,  has  Jemmy,  and  leaves  his  mark.  [I  missed  him 
at  York  by  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  lost  him  for 
as  much  more.  Then  I  picked  him  up  again  at  Carlisle, 
and  we  made  a  race  of  it  for  the  Border;  but  he'd  a 
better  nag,  and  was  best  up  in  the  road;  so  I  had  to 

192 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

wait  till  I  ran  him  to  earth  in  Edinburgh  here  and  could 
get  a  new  warrant]  So  here  I  am,  sir.  They  told  me 
you  were  an  active  sort  of  gentleman,  and  I'm  an  ac- 
tive man  myself.  And  Sir  John  Fielding,  Mr.  Procurator- 
Fiscal,  he's  an  active  gentleman,  likewise,  though  he's 
blind  as  a  himage,  and  he  desired  his  compliments  to 
you  [sir,  and  said  that  between  us  he  thought  we'd  do 
the  trick]. 

Lawson.  Ay,  he'll  be  a  fine  man.  Sir  John.  Hand 
me  owre  your  papers,  Hunt,  and  you'll  have  your  new 
warrant  quam  primum.  And  see  here.  Hunt,  ye'll  aib- 
lins  have  a  while  to  yoursel',  and  an  active  man,  as  ye 
say  ye  are,  should  aye  be  grinding  grist.  We're  sair 
forfeuchen  wi'  our  burglaries.  Non  constat  de  per sond. 
We  canna  get  a  grip  o'  the  delinquents.  Here  is  the 
Hue  and  Cry.  Ye  see  there  is  a  guid  two  hundred 
pounds  for  ye. 

Hunt.  Well,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal  [1  ain't  a  rich 
man,  and  two  hundred's  two  hundred.  Thereby,  sir], 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  I've  had  a  bit  of  a  worry  at  it 
already.  You  see,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  I  had  to  look 
into  a  ken  to-night  about  the  Captain,  and  an  old  cock 
always  likes  to  be  sure  of  his  walk;  so  I  got  one  of 
your  Scotch  officers  —  him  as  was  so  polite  as  to  show 
me  round  to  Mr.  Brodie's  —  to  give  me  full  particulars 
about  the  'ouse,  and  the  flash  companions  that  use  it. 
In  his  list  I  drop  on  the  names  of  two  old  lambs  of  my 
own ;  and  I  put  it  to  you,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  as  a 
gentleman  as  knows  the  world,  if  what's  a  black  sheep 
in  London  is  likely  or  not  to  be  keeping  school  in 
Edinburgh  ? 

Lawson.  Caelum  non  animum.     A  just  observe. 
193 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Hunt.  I'll  give  it  a  thought,  sir,  and  see  if  I  can't 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  Talking  of  which,  Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal,  I'd  like  to  have  a  bit  of  a  confab  with 
that  nice  young  woman  as  came  to  pay  her  rent. 

Lawson.  Hunt,  that's  a  very  decent  woman. 

Hunt.  And  a  very  decent  woman  may  have  mighty 
queer  pals,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal.  Lord  love  you,  sir, 
I  don't  know  what  the  profession  would  do  with- 
out 'em ! 

Lawson.  Ye're  vera  richt.  Hunt.  An  active  and  a 
watchful  officer.     I'll  send  her  in  till  ye. 


SCENE  II 

Hunt  (solus) 

Two  hundred  pounds  reward.  Curious  thing.  One 
burglary  after  another,  and  these  Scotch  blockheads 
without  a  man  to  show  for  it.  Jock  runs  east,  and 
Sawney  cuts  west;  everything's  at  a  deadlock;  and 
they  go  on  calling  themselves  thief-catchers!  [By 
Jingo,  I'll  show  them  how  we  do  it  down  South! 
Well,  I  ve  worn  out  a  good  deal  of  saddle  leather  over 
Jemmy  Rivers ;  but  here's  for  new  breeches  if  you  like.  ] 
Let's  have  another  queer  at  the  list.  (Reads.)  "  Hum- 
phrey Moore,  otherwise  Badger;  aged  forty,  thick-set, 
dark,  close-cropped;  has  been  a  prize-fighter;  no  ap- 
parent occupation."  Badger's  an  old  friend  of  mine. 
"George  Smith,  otherwise  the  Dook,  otherwise  Jing- 
ling Geordie;  red-haired  and  curly,  slight,  flash;  an  old 
thimble-rig;  has  been  a  stroller;  suspected  of  smug- 

194 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

gling;  an  associate  of  loose  women."  G.  S.,  Esquire, 
is  another  of  my  flock.  **  Andrew  Ainslie,  otherwise 
Slink  Ainslie;  aged  thirty-five ;  thin,  white-faced,  lank- 
haired;  no  occupation;  has  been  in  trouble  for  reset  of 
theft  and  subornation  of  youth;  might  be  useful  as 
king's  evidence."  That's  an  acquaintance  to  make. 
**Jock  Hamilton,  otherwise  Sweepie,"  and  so  on. 
[**  Willie  M'Glashan,"  hum  —  yes,  and  so  on,  and  so 
on.]  Ha!  here's  the  man  I  want.  **  William  Brodie, 
Deacon  of  the  Wrights,  about  thirty;  tall,  slim,  dark; 
wears  his  own  hair;  is  often  at  Clarke's  but  seemingly 
for  purposes  of  amusement  only;  [is  nephew  to  the 
Procurator-Fiscal;  is  commercially  sound,  but  has  of 
late  (it  is  supposed)  been  short  of  cash;  has  lost  much 
at  cock-fighting;]  is  proud,  clever,  of  good  repute,  but 
is  fond  of  adventures  and  secrecy,  and  keeps  low  com- 
pany." Now,  here's  what  I  ask  myself;  here's  this  list 
of  the  family  party  that  drop  into  Mother  Clarke's;  it's 
been  in  the  hands  of  these  nincompoops  for  weeks, 
and  I'm  the  first  to  cry  Queer  Street!  Two  well-known 
cracksmen,  Badger  and  the  Dook!  why,  there's  Jack  in 
the  Orchard  at  once.  This  here  topsawyer  work  they 
talk  about,  of  course  that's  a  chalk  above  Badger  and 
the  Dook.  But  how  about  our  Mohock-tradesman  ? 
"Purposes  of  amusement!  "  What  next.?  Deacon  of 
the  Wrights  ?  and  wright  in  their  damned  lingo  means 
a  kind  of  carpenter,  I  fancy  ?  Why,  damme,  it's  the 
man's  trade!  I'll  look  you  up,  Mr.  William  Brodie, 
Deacon  of  the  Wrights.  As  sure  as  my  name's  Jerry 
Hunt,  I  wouldn't  take  one-ninety-nine  in  gold  for  my 
chance  of  that  'ere  two  hundred! 

•95 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

SCENE   III 
Hunt;  to  bim }EA}i 

Hunt.  Well,  my  dear,  and  how  about  your  gentle- 
man friend  now  ?    How  about  Deacon  Brodie  ? 

Jean.  I  dinna  ken  your  name,  sir,  nor  yet  whae  ye 
are;  but  this  is  a  very  poor  employ  for  ony  gentleman  — 
it  sets  ill  wi'  ony  gentleman  to  cast  my  shame  in  my 
teeth. 

Hunt.  Lord  love  you,  my  dear,  that  ain't  my  line  of 
country.  Suppose  you're  not  married  and  churched  a 
hundred  thousand  times,  what  odds  to  Jerry  Hunt  ? 
Jerry,  my  Pamela  Prue,  is  a  cove  as  might  be  your 
parent;  a  cove  renowned  for  the  ladies'  friend  [and  he.'s 
dead  certain  to  be  on  your  side].  What  I  can't  get 
over  is  this:  here's  this  Mr.  Deacon  Brodie  doing  the 
genteel  at  home,  and  leaving  a  nice  young  'oman  like 
you  —  as  a  cove  may  say  —  to  take  it  out  on  cold  po- 
tatoes. That's  what  I  can't  get  over,  Mrs.  Watt.  I'm 
a  family  man  myself;  and  I  can't  get  over  it. 

Jean.  And  whae  said  that  to  ye  ?  They  lee'd  what- 
ever. I  get  naething  but  guid  by  him;  and  I  had  nae 
richt  to  gang  to  his  house;  and  O,  I  just  ken  I've  been 
the  ruin  of  him! 

Hunt.  Don't  you  take  on,  Mrs.  Watt.  Why,  now  I 
hear  you  piping  up  for  him,  I  begin  to  think  a  lot  of 
him  myself     I  like  a  cove  to  be  open-handed  and  free. 

Jean.  Weel,  sir,  and  he's  a'  that. 

Hunt.  Well,  that  shows  what  a  wicked  world  this 

is.    Why,  they  told  me .    Well,  well,  **  here's  the 

196 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

open  'and  and  the  'appy  'art."  And  how  much,  my 
dear—  speaking  as  a  family  man  —  now,  how  much 
might  your  gentleman  friend  stand  you  in  the  course  of 
a  year? 

Jean.  What's  your  wull  ? 

Hunt.  That's  a  mighty  fancy  shawl,  Mrs.  Watt.  [I 
should  like  to  take  its  next-door  neighbour  to  Mrs. 
Hunt  in  King  Street,  Common  Garden.]  What's  about 
the  figure  ? 

Jean.  It's  paid  for.     Ye  can  sweir  to  that. 

Hunt.  Yes,  my  dear,  and  so  is  King  George's  crown; 
but  I  don't  know  what  it  cost,  and  I  don't  know  where 
the  blunt  came  from  to  pay  for  it. 

Jean.  I'm  thinking  ye'll  be  a  vera  clever  gentleman. 

Hunt.  So  I  am,  my  dear;  and  I  like  you  none  the 
worse  for  being  artful  yourself.  But  between  friends 
now,  and  speaking  as  a  family  man 

Jean.  I'll  be  wishin'  ye  a  fine  nicht.  {Curtsies  and 
goes  out.) 

SCENE  IV 

Hunt  {solus) 

Hunt.  Ah!  that's  it,  is  it?  **My  fancy  man's  my 
'ole  delight,"  as  we  say  in  Bow  Street.  But  which  is 
the  fancy  man?  George  the  Dook,  or  William  the 
Deacon  ?  One  or  both  ?  {He  winks  solemnly.)  Well, 
Jerry,  my  boy,  here's  your  work  cut  out  for  you;  but 
if  you  took  one-nine-five  for  that  ere  little  two  hundred 
you'd  be  a  disgrace  to  the  profession. 

197 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

TABLEAU   III 
Mother  Clarke's 

SCENE  I 

The  stage  represents  a  room  of  coarse  and  sordid  appearance:  settles^ 
spittoons,  etc.;  sanded  Jloor.  A  large  table  at  hack,  where  Ainslie, 
Hamilton,  and  others  are  playing  cards  and  quarrelling.  In  front  ^ 
L.  and  R.  smaller  tables,  at  one  of  which  are  Brodie  and  Moore, 
drinking.     Mrs.  Clarke  and  women  serving. 

Moore.  You've  got  the  devil's  own  luck,  Deacon, 
that's  what  you've  got. 

Brodie.  Luck!  Don't  talk  of  luck  to  a  man  like  me! 
Why  not  say  I've  the  devil's  own  judgment  ?  Men  of 
my  stamp  don't  risk  —  they  plan,  Badger;  they  plan, 
and  leave  chance  to  such  cattle  as  you  [and  Jingling 
Geordie.  They  make  opportunities  before  they  take 
them]. 

Moore.  You're  artful,  ain't  you  ? 

Brodie.  Should  I  be  here  else?  When  I  leave  my 
house  I  leave  an  alibi  behind  me.  I'm  ill  —  ill  with  a 
jumping  headache,  and  the  fiend's  own  temper.  I'm 
sick  in  bed  this  minute,  and  they're  all  going  about  with 
the  fear  of  death  on  them  lest  they  should  disturb  the 
poor  sick  Deacon.  [My  bedroom  door  is  barred  and 
bolted  like  the  bank  —  you  remember!  —  and  all  the 
while  the  window's  open,  and  the  Deacon's  over  the 
hills  and  far  away.     What  do  you  think  of  me  ?] 

Moore.  I've  seen  your  sort  before,  I  have. 

Brodie.  Not  you.    As  for  Leslie's 

Moore.  That  was  a  nick  above  you. 
198 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Brodie.  Ay  was  it.  He  wellnigh  took  me  red-handed ; 
and  that  was  better  luck  than  I  deserved.  If  I'd  not 
been  drunk,  and  in  my  tantrums,  you'd  never  have  got 
my  hand  within  a  thousand  years  of  such  a  job. 

Moore.  Why  not  ?  You're  the  King  of  the  Cracks- 
men, ain't  you  ? 

Brodie.  Why  not!  He  asks  me  why  not!  Gods, 
what  a  brain  it  is !  Hark  ye.  Badger,  it's  all  very  well 
to  be  King  of  the  Cracksmen,  as  you  call  it;  but  how- 
ever respectable  he  may  have  the  misfortune  to  be,  one's 
friend  is  one's  friend,  and  as  such  must  be  severely  let 
alone.  What!  shall  there  be  no  more  honour  among 
thieves  than  there  is  honesty  among  politicians  ?  Why, 
man,  if  under  heaven  there  were  but  one  poor  lock  un- 
picked, and  that  the  lock  of  one  whose  claret  you've 
drunk,  and  who  has  babbled  of  woman  across  your 
own  mahogany — that  lock,  sir,  were  entirely  sacred. 
Sacred  as  the  Kirk  of  Scotland ;  sacred  as  King  George 
upon  his  throne;  sacred  as  the  memory  of  Bruce  and 
Bannockburn. 

Moore.  Oh,  rot!  I  ain't  a  parson,  I  ain't;  I  never  had 
no  college  education.  Business  is  business.  That's  wot's 
the  matter  with  me. 

Brodie.  Ay,  so  we  said  when  you  lost  that  fight  with 
Newcastle  Jemmy,  and  sent  us  all  home  poor  men. 
That  was  a  nick  above  you. 

Moore.  Newcastle  Jemmy!  Muck:  that's  my  opinion 
of  him:  muck.  I'll  mop  the  floor  up  with  him  any  day, 
if  so  be  as  you  or  any  on  'em'll  make  it  worth  my 
while.  If  not,  muck!  That's  my  motto.  Wot  I  now 
ses  is,  about  that  'ere  crib  at  Leslie's,  wos  1  right,  I  ses  ? 
or  wos  I  wrong?  That's  wot's  the  matter  with  you. 

199 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LhFE 

Brodie.  You  are  both  right  and  wrong.  You  dared 
me  to  do  it.  I  was  drunk;  I  was  upon  my  mettle;  and 
I  as  good  as  did  it.  More  than  that,  blackguardly  as  it 
was,  I  enjoyed  the  doing.  He  is  my  friend.  He  had 
dined  with  me  that  day,  and  I  felt  like  a  man  in  a  story. 
I  climbed  his  wall,  I  crawled  along  his  pantry  roof,  I 
mounted  his  window-sill.  That  one  turn  of  my  wrist 
—  you  know  it!  —  and  the  casement  was  open.  It  was 
as  dark  as  the  pit,  and  I  thought  I'd  won  my  wager, 
when,  phewt!  down  went  something  inside,  and  down 
went  somebody  with  it.  I  made  one  leap,  and  was 
off  like  a  rocket.  It  was  my  poor  friend  in  person ;  and 
if  he'd  caught  and  passed  me  on  to  the  watchman  under 
the  window,  I  should  have  felt  no  viler  rogue  than  I  feel 
just  now. 

Moore.  I  s'pose  he  knows  you  pretty  well  by  this 
time  ? 

Brodie.  'Tis  the  worst  of  friendship.  Here,  Kirsty, 
fill  these  glasses.  Moore,  here's  better  luck  —  and  a 
more  honourable  plant!  —  next  time. 

Moore.  Deacon,  I  looks  towards  you.  But  it  looks 
thundering  like  rotten  eggs,  don't  it  ? 

Brodie.  I  think  not.  I  was  masked,  for  one  thing, 
and  for  another  I  was  as  quick  as  lightning.  He  sus- 
pects me  so  little  that  he  dined  with  me  this  very 
afternoon. 

Moore.  Anyway,  you  ain't  game  to  try  it  on  again, 
I'll  lay  odds  on  that.  Once  bit,  twice  shy.  That's 
your  motto. 

Brodie.  Right  again.  I'll  put  my  alibi  to  a  better 
use.  And,  Badger,  one  word  in  your  ear:  there's  no 
Newcastle  Jemmy  about  me.    Drop  the  subject,  and  for 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

good,  or  I  shall  drop  you.  {He.  rises,  and  walks  back- 
wards and  forwards,  a  little  unsteadily;  then  returns, 
and  sits  L,  as  before.) 

SCENE  II 
To  these.  Hunt,  disguised 

He  is  disguised  as  a  '*  flying  stationer  "  with  a  patch  over  his  eye. 
He  sits  at  table  opposite  Brodie's^  and  is  served  with  bread  and 
cheese  and  beer. 

Hamilton  {from  behind).    The  deevil  tak'  the  cairts! 

AiNSLiE.  Hoot,  man,  dinna  blame  the  cairts. 

MooRE.  Look  here,  Deacon,  I  mean  business,  I  do. 
(Hunt  looks  up  at  the  name  of  '*  Deacon,*') 

Brodie.  Gad,  Badger,  I  never  meet  you  that  you  do 
not.  [You  have  a  set  of  the  most  commercial  inten- 
tions!]   You  make  me  blush. 

MooRE.  That's  all  blazing  fine,  that  is!  But  wot  I  ses 
is,  wot  about  the  chips  .^  That's  what  I  ses.  I'm  after 
that  thundering  old  Excise  Office,  I  am.  That's  my 
motto. 

Brodie.  Tis  a  very  good  motto,  and  at  your  lips, 
Badger,  it  kind  of  warms  my  heart.    But  it's  not  mine. 

MooRE.  Muck!  why  not? 

Brodie.  'Tis  too  big  and  too  dangerous.  I  shirk 
King  George;  he  has  a  fat  pocket,  but  he  has  a  long 
arm.  [You  pilfer  sixpence  from  him,  and  it's  three 
hundred  reward  for  you,  and  a  hue  and  cry  from  Tophet 
to  the  stars.]  It  ceases  to  be  business;  it  turns  politics, 
and  I'm  not  a  politician,  Mr.  Moore.  {Rising.)  I'm  only 
Deacon  Brodie. 

Moore.  All  right.     I  can  wait 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Brodie  {seeing  Hunt).  Ha,  a  new  face, —  and  with  a 
patch!  [There's  nothing  under  heaven  I  like  so  dearly 
as  a  new  face  with  a  patch.]  Who  the  devil,  sir,  are 
you  that  own  it  ?  And  where  did  you  get  it  ?  And 
how  much  will  you  take  for  it  second-hand  ? 

Hunt.  Well,  sir,  to  tell  you  the  truth  (Brodie  bows) 
it's  not  for  sale.  But  it's  my  own,  and  I'll  drink  your 
honour's  health  in  anything. 

Brodie.  An  Englishman,  too!  Badger,  behold  a 
countryman.  What  are  you,  and  what  part  of  south- 
ern Scotland  do  you  come  from  ? 

Hunt.  Well,  your  honour,  to  tell  you  the  honest 
truth 

[Brodie  (bowing).     Your  obleeged !] 

Hunt.  I  knows  a  gentleman  when  I  sees  him,  your 
honour  [and,  to  tell  your  honour  the  truth 

Brodie.  Je  vom  baiseles  mains!    {Bowing.)] 

Hunt.  A  gentleman  as  is  a  gentleman,  your  honour 
[is  always  a  gentleman,  and  to  tell  you  the  honest 
truth] 

Brodie.  Great  heavens!  answer  in  three  words,  and 
be  hanged  to  you !  What  are  you,  and  where  are  you 
from  ? 

Hunt.  A  patter-cove  from  Seven  Dials. 

Brodie.  Is  it  possible  ?  All  my  life  long  have  I  been 
pining  to  meet  with  a  patter-cove  from  Seven  Dials! 
Embrace  me,  at  a  distance.  [A  patter-cove  from  Seven 
Dials !]  Go,  fill  yourself  as  drunk  as  you  dare,  at  my 
expense.  Anything  he  likes,  Mrs.  Clarke.  He's  a 
patter-cove  from  Seven  Dials.     Hillo!  what's  all  this? 

AiNSLiE.  Dod,  I'm  for  nae  mair!  {At  back,  and  ris- 
ing.) 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Players.  Sit  down,  Ainslie. — Sit  down,  Andra. — 
Ma  revenge! 

Ainslie.  Na,  na,  I'm  for  canny  goin*.  {Coming  for^ 
ward  with  bottle.)    Deacon,  let's  see  your  gless. 

Brodie.  Not  an  inch  of  it. 

Moore.  No  rotten  shirking.  Deacon! 

[Ainslie.  I'm  sayin*,  man,  let's  see  your  gless. 

Brodie.  Go  to  the  deuce !] 

Ainslie.  But  I'm  sayin' 

Brodie.  Haven't  I  to  play  to-night  ? 

Ainslie.  But,  man,  ye'll  drink  to  bonnie  Jean  Watt  ? 

Brodie.  Ay,  I'll  follow  you  there.  A  la  reine  de  mes 
amours!  (Drinks.)  What  fiend  put  this  in  your  way, 
you  hound  ?  You've  filled  me  with  raw  stuff.  By  the 
muckle  deil! 

Moore.  Don't  hit  him,  Deacon ;  tell  his  mother. 

Hunt  {aside).  Oho! 

SCENE    III 
To  these,  Smith,  Rivers 

Smith.  Where's  my  beloved .?  Deakin,  my  beauty, 
where  are  you  ?  Come  to  the  arms  of  George,  and  let 
him  introduce  you.  Capting  Starlight  Rivers!  Cap- 
ting,  the  Deakin:  Deakin,  the  Capting.  An  English 
nobleman  on  the  grand  tour,  to  open  his  mind,  by  the 
Lard! 

Rivers.  Stupendiously  pleased  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, Mr.  Deakin,  split  me! 

[Brodie.  We  don't  often  see  England's  heroes  our 
way,  Captain,  but  when  we  do,  we  make  them  infer- 
nally welcome. 

305 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Rivers.  Prettily  put,  sink  me!  A  demned  genteel 
sentiment,  stap  my  vitals!] 

Brodie.  Oh  Captain !  you  flatter  me.  [We  Scotsmen 
have  our  qualities,  I  suppose,  but  we  are  but  rough 
and  ready  at  the  best.  There's  nothing  like  your 
Englishman  for  genuine  distinction.  He  is  nearer 
France  than  we  are,  and  smells  of  his  neighbourhood. 

That  d d  thing,  the  je  ne  sais  quoi,  too!    Lard, 

Lard,  split  me!  stap  my  vitals!  O  such  manners  are 
pure,  pure,  pure.  They  are,  by  the  shade  of  Claude 
Duval!] 

Rivers.  Mr.  Deakin,  Mr.  Deakin  [this  is  passatively 
too  much].  What  will  you  sip  ?  Give  it  the  i&anar  of 
a  neam. 

Brodie.  By  these  most  hanarable  hands  now,  Cap- 
tain, you  shall  not.  On  such  an  occasion  I  could  play 
host  with  Lucifer  himself:  Here,  Clarke,  Mother  Mid- 
night! Down  with  you,  Captain!  {forcing him  bolster- 
omly  into  a  chair.)  I  don't  know  if  you  can  lie,  but, 
sink  me!  you  shall  sit.     Drinking,  etc.,  in  dumb-show, 

MooRE  (aside  to  Smith).  We've  nobbled  him, 
Geordie! 

Smith  {aside  to  Moore).  As  neat  as  ninepence !  He's 
taking  it  down  like  mother's  milk.  But  there'll  be  wigs 
on  the  green  to-morrow,  Badger!  It'll  be  tuppence 
and  toddle  with  George  Smith. 

Moore.  O  muck!  Who's  afraid  of  him?  {To  Ains- 
LIE.)  Hang  on,  Slinkie. 

Hunt  {who  is  feigning  drunkenness^  and  has  over' 
beard;  aside).     By  Jingo! 

[Rivers.  Will  you  sneeze,  Mr.  Deakin,  sir  ? 

Brodie.  Thanks;  I  have  all  the  vices.  Captain.  You 
204 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

must  send  me  some  of  your  rappee.  It  is  passatively 
perfect] 

Rivers.  Mr.  Deakin,  I  do  myself  the  i^anar  of  a  sip  to 
you. 

Brodie.  Topsy-turvy  with  the  can! 

Moore  {aside  to  Smith).     That  made  him  wink. 

Brodie.  Your  high  and  mighty  hand,  my  Captain! 
Shall  we  dice  —  dice  —  dice.^  {Dumb-show  between 
them.) 

AiNSLiE  {aside  to  Moore).  I'm  sayin' ? 

Moore.  What's  up  now  ? 

Ainslie.  I'm  no  to  gie  him  the  coggit  dice  ? 

Moore.  The  square  ones,  rot  you!  Ain't  he  got  to 
lose  every  brass  farden  } 

Ainslie.  What'll  like  be  my  share  ? 

Moore.  You  mucking  well  leave  that  to  me. 

Rivers.  Well,  Mr.  Deakin,  if  you  passatively  will 
have  me  shake  a  Wbow 

Brodie.  Where  are  the  bones,  Ainslie.^  Where  are 
the  dice,  Lord  George  .^  (Ainslie  gives  the  dice  and 
dice-box  to  Brodie  ;  and  privately  a  second  pair  of  dice. ) 
Old  Fortune's  counters  the  bonnie  money-catching, 
money-breeding  bones!  Hark  to  their  dry  music! 
Scotland  against  England!  Sit  round,  you  tame  devils, 
and  put  your  coins  on  me! 

Smith.  Easy  does  it,  my  lord  of  high  degree!  Keep 
cool. 

Brodie.  Cool's  the  word,  Captain  —  a  cool  twenty 
on  the  first  .^ 

Rivers.  Done  and  done.     (They  play.) 

Hunt  {aside  to  Moore,  a  little  drunk).  Ain't  that 
'ere  Scotch  gentleman,  your  friend,  too  drunk  to  play,  sir? 

205 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Moore.  You  hold  your  jaw ;  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  you. 

AiNSLiE.  He's  waur  nor  he  looks.  He's  knockit  the 
box  aff  the  table. 

Smith  (picking  up  box).  That's  the  way  we  does  it 
Ten  to  one  and  no  takers! 

Brodie.  Deuces  again!     More  liquor,  Mother  Clarke! 

Smith.  Hooray  our  side !  {Pouring  out),  George  and 
his  pal  for  ever! 

Brodie.  Deuces  again,  by  heaven!    Another? 

Rivers.  Done! 

Brodie.  Ten  more;  money's  made  to  go.  On  with 
you! 

Rivers.  Sixes. 

Brodie.  Deuce-ace.  Death  and  judgment  ?  Double 
or  quits  ? 

Rivers.  Drive  on !    Sixes. 

Smith.  Fire  away,  brave  boys!  (To  Moore.)  It's 
Tally-ho-the-Grinder,  Hump! 

Brodie.  Treys!  Death  and  the  pit!  How  much 
have  you  got  there  ? 

Rivers.  A  cool  forty-five. 

Brodie.  I  play  you  thrice  the  lot 

Rivers.  Who's  afraid  ? 

Smith.     Stand  by,  Badger! 

Rivers.  Cinq-ace. 

Brodie.  My  turn  now.  {He  juggles  in  and  uses  the 
second  pair  of  dice.)  Aces!  Aces  again!  What's 
this?  {Picking  up  dice.)  Sold!  .  .  .  You  play  false, 
you  hound! 

Rivers.  You  liel 

906 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Brodie.  In  your  teeth.  (Overturns  table,  and  goes 
for  him. ) 

Moore.  Here,  none  o*  that.  (They  bold  him  back. 
Struggle.) 

Smith.  Hold  on,  Deacon! 

Brodie.  Let  me  go.  Hands  off,  I  say!  I'll  not  touch 
him.  (Stands  weighing  dice  in  his  hand.)  But  as  for 
that  thieving  whinger,  Ainslie,  I'll  cut  his  throat 
between  this  dark  and  to-morrow's.  To  the  bone. 
(Addressing  the  company.)  Rogues,  rogues,  rogues! 
(Singing  without. )     Ha !  what's  that } 

Ainslie.  It's  the  psalm-singing  up  by  at  the  Holy 
Weaver's.   And  O  Deacon,  if  ye're  a  Christian  man 

The  Psalm  without:  — 

"  Lord,  who  shall  stand,  if  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Should'st  mark  iniquity  ? 
But  yet  with  Thee  forgiveness  is, 
That  feared  Thou  may'st  be." 

Brodie.  I  think  I'll  go.  "My  son  the  Deacon  was 
aye  regular  at  kirk."    If  the  old  man  could  see  his  son, 

the  Deacon!    I  think  I'll Ay,  who  shall  stand .^ 

There's  the  rub!  And  forgiveness,  too?  There's  a 
long  word  for  you!  I  learnt  it  all  lang  syne,  and  now 
.  .  .  hell  and  ruin  are  on  either  hand  of  me,  and  the 
devil  has  me  by  the  leg.  '*  My  son,  the  Deacon  .  .  .  !" 
Eh,  God!  but  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool!  (Becom- 
ing conscious  of  the  others.)     Rogues ! 

Smith.  Take  my  arm,  Deacon. 

Brodie.  Down,  dog,  down !  [Stay  and  be  drunk  with 
207 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

your  equals.]  Gentlemen  and  ladies,  I  have  already 
cursed  you  pretty  heavily.  Let  me  do  myself  the 
pleasure  of  wishing  you  —  a  very  —  good  evening. 
(As  he  goes  out,  Hunt,  who  has  been  staggering  about  in 
the  crowd,  falls  on  a  settle.as  about  to  sleep.) 

Act-Drop. 


ao8 


ACT  II 

TABLEAU  IV 
Evil  and  Good 

The  Stage  represents  the  Deacon's  workshop;  benches,  shavings,  tools, 
hoards,  and  so  forth.  Doors,  C.  on  the  street,  and  L.  into  the  house, 
IVithout,  church  hells;  not  a  chime,  hut  a  slow,  broken  tocsin. 

SCENE  I 

Brodie  (soltis).  My  head !  my  head !  It's  the  sickness 
of  the  grave.  And  those  bells  go  on  .  .  .  go  on !  .  .  . 
inexorable  as  death  and  judgment.  [There  they  go; 
the  trumpets  of  respectability,  sounding  encouragement 
to  the  world  to  do  and  spare  not,  and  not  to  be  found 
out.  Found  out!  And  to  those  who  are  they  toll  as 
when  a  man  goes  to  the  gallows.]  Turn  where  I  will 
are  pitfalls  hell-deep.  Mary  and  her  dowry ;  Jean  and 
her  child  —  my  child;  the  dirty  scoundrel  Moore;  my 
uncle  and  his  trust ;  perhaps  the  man  from  Bow  Street. 
Debt,  vice,  cruelty,  dishonour,  crime;  the  whole  cant- 
ing, lying,  double-dealing,  beastly  business!  *'My  son 
the  Deacon  —  Deacon  of  the  Wrights!  "  My  thoughts 
sicken  at  it.  [Oh,  the  Deacon,  the  Deacon!  Where's 
a  hat  for  the  Deacon  ?  where's  a  hat  for  the  Deacon's 

209 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

headache?  (searching).     This  place  is  a  piggery.     To 
be  respectable  and  not  to  find  one's  hat] 

SCENE   II 
To  him,  Jean,  a  baby  in  her  shawl,  C. 

Jean  (who  has  entered  silently  during  the  Deacon's  last 
words).     It's  me,  Wullie. 

Brodie  {turning  upon  her).  What  I  You  here  again  ? 
[you  again !] 

Jean.  Deacon,  I'm  unco  vexed. 

Brodie.  Do  you  know  what  you  do  ?  Do  you  know 
what  you  risk?  [Is  there  nothing  —  nothing!  —  will 
make  you  spare  me  this  idiotic,  wanton  prosecution  ?] 

Jean.  I  was  wrong  to  come  yestreen;  I  ken  that 
fine.  But  the  day  it's  different;  I  but  to  come  the  day. 
Deacon,  though  I  ken  fine  it's  the  Sabbath,  and  I  think 
shame  to  be  seen  upon  the  streets. 

Brodie.  See  here,  Jean.  You  must  go  now.  I'll  come 
to  you  to-night;  I  swear  that.  But  now  I'm  for  the 
road. 

Jean.  No  till  you've  heard  me,  William  Brodie.  Do 
ye  think  I  came  to  pleasure  mysel',  where  I'm  no 
wanted  ?   I've  a  pride  o'  my  ains. 

Brodie.  Jean,  I  am  going  now.  If  you  please  to  stay 
on  alone  in  this  house  of  mine,  where  I  wish  I  could 
say  you  are  welcome,  stay  (going). 

Jean.  It's  the  man  frae  Bow  Street. 

Brodie.  Bow  Street  ? 

Jean.  I  thocht  ye  would  hear  me.  Ye  think  little  o' 
me;  but  it's  mebbe  a  braw  thing  for  you  that  I  think 
sae  muckle  o'  William  Brodie  ...  ill  as  it  sets  me. 

210 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Brodie.  [You  don't  know  what  is  on  my  mind, 
Jeannie,  else  you  would  forgive  me.]    Bow  Street? 

Jean.  It's  the  man  Hunt:  him  that  was  here  yestreen 
for  the  Fiscal. 

Brodie.  Hunt? 

Jean.  He  kens  a  hantle.  He  ...  Ye  maunna  be  an- 
gered wi'  me,  Wullie!    I  said  what  I  shouldna. 

Brodie.  Said  ?  Said  what  ? 

Jean.  Just  that  ye  were  a  guid  frien'  to  me.  He  made 
believe  he  was  awfu'  sorry  for  me,  because  ye  gied  me 
nae  siller;  and  I  said,  *' Wha  tellt  him  that?"  and  that 
he  lee'd. 

Brodie.  God  knows  he  did !    What  next  ? 

Jean.  He  was  that  soft-spoken,  butter  wouldna  melt 
in  his  mouth ;  and  he  keept  aye  harp,  harpin' ;  but  after 
that  let  out,  he  got  neither  black  nor  white  frae  me. 
Just  that  ae  word  and  nae  mair;  and  at  the  hinder  end 
he  just  speired  straucht  out,  whaur  it  was  ye  gpt  your 
siller  frae. 

Brodie.  Where  I  got  my  siller  ? 

Jean.  Ay,  that  was  it.    **  You  ken,"  says  he. 

Brodie.  Did  he  ?  and  what  said  you  ? 

Jean.  I  couldna  think  on  naething,  but  just  that  he 
was  a  gey  and  clever  gentleman. 

Brodie.  You  should  have  said  I  was  in  trade,  and 
had  a  good  business.  That's  what  you  should  have 
said.  That's  what  you  would  have  said  had  you  been 
worth  your  salt.  But  it's  blunder,  blunder,  outside  and 
in  [upstairs,  downstairs,  and  in  my  lady's  chamber]. 
You  women !    Did  he  see  Smith  ? 

Jean.  Ay,  and  kennt  him. 

Brodie.  Damnation! No,  I'm  not  angry  with  you. 

211 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

But  you  see  what  I've  to  endure  for  you.  Don't  cry. 
[Here's  the  devil  at  the  door,  and  we  must  bar  him  out 
as  best  we  can.] 

Jean.  God's  truth,  ye  are  nae  vexed  wi'  me  ? 

Brodie.  God's  truth,  I  am  grateful  to  you.  How  is 
the  child?  Well?  That's  right.  {Peeping.)  Poor  wee 
laddie!    He's  like  you,  Jean. 

Jean.  I  aye  thocht  he  was  liker  you. 

Brodie.  Is  he  ?  Perhaps  he  is.  Ah,  Jeannie,  you  must 
see  and  make  him  a  better  man  than  his  father. 

Jean.  Eh  man.  Deacon,  the  proud  wumman  I'll  be 
gin  he's  only  half  sae  guid. 

Brodie.  Well,  well,  if  I  win  through  this,  we'll  see 
what  we  can  for  him  between  us.  {Leading  her  out,  C.) 
And  now,  go  —  go  —  go. 

Lawson  {without,  L).    I  ken  the  way,  I  ken  the  way. 

Jean  {starting  to  door).  It's  the  Fiscal;  I'm  awa. 
(Brodie,  L), 

SCENE  III 
To  these,  Lawson,  L. 

Lawson.  A  braw  day  this,  William.  {Seeing  ]E\}i,) 
Eh  Mistress  Watt?  And  what'U  have  brocht you  here? 

Brodie  {seated  on  bench).  Something,  uncle,  she  lost 
last  night,  and  she  thinks  that  something  she  lost  is 
here,     t^oild. 

Lawson.  Why  are  ye  no  at  the  kirk,  woman  ?  Do 
ye  gang  to  the  kirk  ? 

Jean.  I'm  mebbe  no  what  ye  would  just  ca*  reg'lar. 
Ye  see.  Fiscal,  it's  the  wean. 

Lawson.  A  bairn's  an  excuse;  I  ken  that  fine,  Mis- 

212 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

tress  Watt.  But  bairn  or  name,  my  woman,  ye  should 
be  at  the  kirk.  Awa  wi'  ye!  Hear  to  the  bells;  they're 
ringing  in.  (Jean  curtsies  to  both,  and  goes  out  C.  The 
bells,  which  have  been  ringing  quicker^  cease,) 

SCENE  IV 

Lawson  (/o  Brodie,  returning  C.  from  door).  Mut- 
ter formosa  superne,  William :  a  braw  lass,  and  a  decent 
woman  forbye. 

Brodie.  I'm  no  judge,  Procurator,  but  I'll  take  your 
word  for  it.     Is  she  not  a  tenant  of  yours  } 

Lawson.  Ay,  ay;  a  bit  house  on  my  land  in  Liberton's 
Wynd.  Her  man's  awa,  puir  body;  or  they  tell  me 
sae;  and  I'm  concerned  for  her  [she's  unco  bonnie  to 
be  left  her  lane].  But  it  sets  me  brawly  to  be  finding 
faut  wi'  the  puir  lass,  and  me  an  elder,  and  should  be 
at  the  plate.  [There'll  be  twa  words  about  this  in  the 
Kirk  Session.]  However,  it's  nane  of  my  business  that 
brings  me,  or  I  should  tak'  the  mair  shame  to  mysel'. 
Na,  sir,  it's  for  you;  it's  your  business  keeps  me  frae 
the  kirk. 

Brodie.  My  business.  Procurator  }  I  rejoice  to  see  it 
in  such  excellent  hands. 

Lawson.  Ye  see,  it's  this  way.  I  had  a  crack  wi' 
the  laddie,  Leslie,  inter  pocula  (he  took  a  stirrup-cup 
wi'  me),  and  he  tells  me  he  has  askit  Mary,  and  she 
was  to  speak  to  ye  hersel'.  O,  ye  needna  look  sae 
gash.  Did  she  speak }  and  what'll  you  have  said 
to  her  ? 

Brodie.  She  has  not  spoken;  I  have  said  nothing; 
and  I  believe  I  asked  you  to  avoid  the  subject. 

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DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Lawson.  Ay,  I  made  a  note  o'  that  observation, 
William  [and  assoilzied  mysel'].  Mary's  a  guid  lass, 
and  I'm  her  uncle,  and  I'm  here  to  be  answered.  Is  it 
to  be  ay  or  no  ? 

Brodie.  It's  to  be  no.  This  marriage  must  be 
quashed ;  and  hark  ye.  Procurator,  you  must  help  me. 

Lawson.  Me  ?  ye're  daft!    And  what  for  why  ? 

Brodie.  Because  I've  spent  the  trust-money,  and  I 
can't  refund  it. 

Lawson.  Ye  reprobate  deevil ! 

Brodie.  Have  a  care.  Procurator.    No  wry  words ! 

Lawson.  Do  you  say  it  to  my  face,  sir  ?  Dod,  sir, 
I'm  the  Crown  Prosecutor. 

Brodie.  Right.  The  Prosecutor  for  the  Crown.  And 
where  did  you  get  your  brandy  ? 

Lawson.  Eh  ? 

Brodie.  Your  brandy!  Your  brandy,  man!  Where 
do  you  get  your  brandy?  And  you  a  Crown  official 
and  an  elder! 

Lawson.  Whaur  the  deevil  did  ye  hear  that  ? 

Brodie.  Rogues  all!    Rogues  all,  Procurator! 

Lawson.  Ay,  ay.  Lord  save  us !  Guidsake,  to  think 
o'  that  noo!  .  .  .  Can  ye  give  me  some  o'  that  Cog- 
nac? I'm  .  .  .  I'm  sort  o' shaken,  William,  I'm  sort  o' 
shaken.  Thank  you,  William!  (Looking  piteously  at 
glass.)  Nunc  est  bib  en  dum.  {Drinks.)  Troth,  I'm  set 
ajee  a  bit.     Wha  the  deevil  tauld  ye  ? 

Brodie.  Ask  no  questions,  brother.     We  are  a  pair. 

Lawson.  Pair,  indeed!  Pair,  William  Brodie!  Upon 
my  saul,  sir,  ye're  a  brazen-faced  man  that  durst  say  it 
to  my  face!  Tak'  you  care,  my  bonnie  young  man, 
that  your  craig  doesna  feel  the  wecht  o'  your  hurdles. 

214 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Keep  the  plainstanes  side  o'  the  gallows.  Fia  trita, 
via  tutdy  William  Brodie! 

Brodie.  And  the  brandy,  Procurator?  and  the 
brandy  ? 

Lawson.  Ay  .  .  .  weel .  .  .  be't  sae !  Let  the  brandy 
bide,  man,  let  the  brandy  bide!  But  for  you  and  the 
trust-money  .  .  .  damned!  It's  felony.  Tutor  in  rem 
suam,  ye  ken,  tutor  in  rem  suam.  But  O  man,  Dea- 
con, whaur  is  the  siller  } 

Brodie.  It's  gone  —  O  how  the  devil  should  I  know  ? 
But  it'll  never  come  back. 

Lawson.  Dear,  dear!  A'  gone  to  the  winds  o'  hea- 
ven! Sae  ye're  an  extravagant  dog,  too.  Prodigus 
et  furiosus!  And  that  puir  lass  —  eh.  Deacon,  man, 
that  puir  lass!    I  mind  her  such  a  bonny  bairn. 

Brodie  (stopping  his  ears).  Brandy,  brandy,  brandy, 
brandy,  brandy! 

Lawson.  William  Brodie,  mony's  the  long  day  that 
I've  believed  in  you;  prood,  prood  was  I  to  be  the  Dea- 
con's uncle;  and  a  sore  hearing  have  I  had  of  it  the  day. 
That's  past;  that's  past  like  Flodden  Field;  it's  an  auld 
sang  noo,  and  I'm  an  aulder  man  than  when  I  crossed 
your  door.  But  mark  ye  this  —  mark  ye  this,  William 
Brodie,  I  may  be  no  sae  guid's  I  should  be;  but  there's 
no  a  saul  between  the  east  sea  and  the  wast  can  lift  his 
een  to  God  that  made  him,  and  say  I  wranged  him  as 
ye  wrang  that  lassie.  I  bless  God,  William  Brodie  — 
ay,  though  he  was  like  my  brother  —  1  bless  God  that 
he  that  got  ye  has  the  hand  of  death  upon  his  hearing, 
and  can  win  into  his  grave  a  happier  man  than  me. 
And  ye  speak  to  me,  sir  ?  Think  shame  —  think  shame 
upon  your  heart! 

215 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Brodie.     Rogues  all! 

Lawson.  You're  the  son  of  my  sister,  William  Brodie. 
Mair  than  that  I  stop  not  to  inquire.  If  the  siller  is 
spent,  and  the  honour  tint  —  Lord  help  us,  and  the  hon- 
our tint! — sae  be  it,  1  maun  bow  the  head.  Ruin 
shallna  come  by  me.  Na,  and  I'll  say  mair,  William; 
we  have  a'  our  weary  sins  upon  our  backs,  and  maybe 
I  have  mair  than  mony.  But,  man,  if  ye  could  bring 
^^// the  jointure  .  .  .  [potim  quam  pereas]  ,  .  .  for  your 
mither's  son  ?  Na  ?  You  couldna  bring  the  half? 
Weel,  weel,  it's  a  sair  heart  I  have  this  day,  a  sair  heart 
and  a  weary.  If  I  were  a  better  man  mysel'  .  .  .  but 
there,  there,  it's  a  sair  heart  that  I  have  gotten.  And 
the  Lord  kens  I'll  help  ye  if  I  can.  [Potius  quam  pereas.] 

SCENE  V 

Brodie.  Sore  hearing,  does  he  say  ?  My  hand's  wet. 
But  it's  victory.  Shall  it  be  go  ?  or  stay  ?  [I  should 
show  them  all  I  can,  or  they  may  pry  closer  than  they 
ought.]  Shall  I  have  it  out  and  be  done  with  it?  To 
see  Mary  at  once  [to  carry  bastion  after  bastion  at  the 
charge]  —  there  were  the  true  safety  after  all !  Hurry  — 
hurry's  the  road  to  silence  now.  Let  them  once  get 
tattling  in  their  parlours,  and  it's  death  to  me.  For  I'm 
in  a  cruel  corner  now.  I'm  down,  and  I  shall  get  my 
kicking  soon  and  soon  enough.  I  began  it  in  the  lust 
of  life,  in  a  hey-day  of  mystery  and  adventure.  I  felt  it 
great  to  be  a  bolder,  craftier  rogue  than  the  drowsy 
citizen  that  called  himself  my  fellow-man.  [It  was 
meat  and  drink  to  know  him  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand, 
hoarding  that  I  and  mine  might  squander,  pinching  that 

216 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

we  might  wax  fat.]  It  was  in  the  laughter  of  my  heart 
that  I  tip-toed  into  his  greasy  privacy.  I  forced  the 
strong-box  at  his  ear  while  he  sprawled  beside  his 
wife.  He  was  my  butt,  my  ape,  my  jumping-jack. 
And  now  .  .  .  O  fool,  fool!  [Duped  by  such  knaves 
as  are  a  shame  to  knavery,  crime's  rabble,  hell's  tatter- 
demalions !]  Shorn  to  the  quick !  Rooked  to  my  vitals ! 
And  I  must  thieve  for  my  daily  bread  like  any  crawling 
blackguard  in  the  gutter.  And  my  sister  .  .  .  my 
kind,  innocent  sister!  She  will  come  smiling  to  me 
with  her  poor  little  love-story,  and  I  must  break  her 
heart.  Broken  hearts,  broken  lives  I  ...  I  should  have 
died  before. 

SCENE  VI 

Brodie,  Mary 

Mary  {tapping  without).  Can  I  come  in,  Will? 

Brodie.  O  yes,  come  in,  come  in!  (Mary  enters.)  I 
wanted  to  be  quiet,  but  it  doesn't  matter,  I  see.  You 
women  are  all  the  same. 

Mary.  O  no.  Will,  they're  not  all  so  happy,  and 
they're  not  all  Brodies.  But  I'll  be  a  woman  in  one 
thing.  For  I've  come  to  claim  your  promise,  dear;  and 
I'm  going  to  be  petted  and  comforted  and  made  much 
of,  altho'  I  don't  need  it,  and  .  .  .  Why,  Will,  what's 
wrong  with  you  ?  You  look  ...  I  don't  know  what 
you  look  like. 

Brodie.  O  nothing!  A  splitting  head  and  an  aching 
heart.  Well !  you've  come  to  speak  to  me.  Speak  up. 
What  is  it?  Come,  girl!  What  is  it?  Can't  you 
speak  ? 

317 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Mary.  Why,  Will,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Brodie.  I  thought  you  had  come  to  tell  me  some- 
thing. Here  I  am.  For  God's  sake  out  with  it,  and 
don't  stand  beating  about  the  bush. 

Mary.  O  be  kind,  be  kind  to  me. 

Brodie.  Kind  ?  1  am  kind.  I'm  only  ill  and  wor- 
ried, can't  you  see?  Whimpering?  1  knew  it!  Sit 
down,  you  goose!  Where  do  you  women  get  your 
tears  ? 

Mary.  Why  are  you  so  cross  with  me  ?  Oh,  Will, 
you  have  forgot  your  sister!  Remember,  dear,  that  I 
have  nobody  but  you.  It's  your  own  fault.  Will,  if 
you've  taught  me  to  come  to  you  for  kindness,  for  I  al- 
ways found  it.  And  I  mean  you  shall  be  kind  to  me 
again.  I  know  you  will,  for  this  is  my  great  need,  and 
the  day  I've  missed  my  mother  sorest.  Just  a  nice 
look,  dear,  and  a  soft  tone  in  your  voice,  to  give  me 
courage,  for  I  can  tell  you  nothing  till  I  know  that 
you're  my  own  brother  once  again. 

Brodie.  If  you'd  take  a  hint,  you'd  put  it  off  till  to- 
morrow. But  I  suppose  you  won't.  On,  then,  I'm 
listening.     I'm  listening! 

Mary.  Mr.  Leslie  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. 

Brodie.  He  has,  has  he? 

Mary.  And  I  have  consented. 

Brodie.  And  .  .  .  ? 

Mary.  You  can  say  that  to  me  ?  And  that  is  all  you 
have  to  say  ? 

Brodie.  O  no,  not  all. 

Mary.  Speak  out,  sir.     I  am  not  afraid. 

Brodie.  I  suppose  you  want  my  consent  ? 

3l8 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Mary.  Can  you  ask  ? 

Brodie.  I  didn't  know.  You  seem  to  have  got  on 
pretty  well  without  it  so  far. 

Mary.  O  shame  on  you!  shame  on  you! 

Brodie.  Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  do  without  it 
altogether.  I  hope  so.  For  you'll  never  have  it.  .  .  . 
Mary!  .  .  .  1  hate  to  see  you  look  like  that.  If  I  could 
say  anything  else,  believe  me,  I  would  say  it.  But  I 
have  said  all;  every  word  is  spoken;  there's  the  end. 

Mary.  It  shall  not  be  the  end.  You  owe  me  ex- 
planation; and  I'll  have  it. 

Brodie.  Isn't  my  "No  "  enough,  Mary .^ 

Mary.  It  might  be  enough  for  me;  but  it  is  not,  and 
it  cannot  be,  enough  for  him.  He  has  asked  me  to  be 
his  wife;  he  tells  me  his  happiness  is  in  my  hands  — 
poor  hands,  but  they  shall  not  fail  him,  if  my  poor 
heart  should  break !  If  he  has  chosen  and  set  his  hopes 
upon  me,  of  all  women  in  the  world,  I  shall  find  cour- 
age somewhere  to  be  worthy  of  the  choice.  And  I 
dare  you  to  leave  this  room  until  you  tell  me  all  your 
thoughts  —  until  you  prove  that  this  is  good  and  right. 

Brodie.  Good  and  right  ?  They  are  strange  words, 
Mary.  I  mind  the  time  when  it  was  good  and  right 
to  be  your  father's  daughter  and  your  brother's  sister. 
.  .  .  Now!  .  .  . 

Mary.  Have  I  changed  ?  Not  even  in  thought.  My 
father,  Walter  says,  shall  live  and  die  with  us.  He  shall 
only  have  gained  another  son.  And  you — you  know 
what  he  thinks  of  you;  you  know  what  I  would  do 
for  you. 

Brodie.  Give  him  up. 

219 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Mary.  I  have  told  you :  not  without  a  reason. 

Brodie.  You  must. 

Mary.  I  will  not. 

Brodie.  What  if  I  told  you  that  you  could  only  com- 
pass your  happiness  and  his  at  the  price  of  my  ruin  ? 

Mary.  Your  ruin  ? 

Brodie.  Even  so. 

Mary.  Ruin! 

Brodie.  It  has  an  ugly  sound,  has  it  not  ? 

Mary.  O  Willie,  what  have  you  done  ?  What  have 
you  done  ?  What  have  you  done  ? 

Brodie.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Mary.  But  you  may  trust 
me.  You  must  give  up  this  Leslie  .  .  .  and  at  once. 
It  is  to  save  me. 

Mary.  I  would  die  for  you,  dear,  you  know  that. 
But  I  cannot  be  false  to  him.  Even  for  you,  I  cannot  be 
false  to  him. 

Brodie.  We  shall  see.  Let  me  take  you  to  your 
room.  Come.  And,  remember,  it  is  for  your  brother's 
sake.    It  is  to  save  me. 

Mary.  I  am  true  Brodie.  Give  me  time,  and  you 
shall  not  find  me  wanting.  But  it  is  all  so  sudden  .  .  . 
so  strange  and  dreadful!  You  will  give  me  time,  will 
you  not?  I  am  only  a  woman,  and  ...  O  my  poor 
Walter!  It  will  break  his  heart!  It  will  break  his  heart! 
(A  knock.) 

Brodie.  You  hear! 

Mary.  Yes,  yes.  Forgive  me.  I  am  going.  I  will 
go.  It  is  to  save  you,  is  it  not  ?  To  save  you.  Walter 
.  .  .  Mr.  Leslie  .  .  .  O  Deacon,  Deacon,  God  forgive 
you!  {She goes  out,) 

Brodie.  Amen.     But  will  He  ? 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

SCENE  VII 
Brodie,  Hunt 

Hunt  {hat  in  hand).     Mr.  Deacon  Brodie,  I  believe  r 

Brodie.  I  am  he,  Mr. . 

Hunt.  Hunt,  sir;  an  officer  from  Sii  John  Fielding  of 
Bow  Street. 

Brodie.  There  can  be  no  better  passport  than  the 
name.     In  what  can  I  serve  you .? 

Hunt.  You'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Deacon. 

Brodie.  Your  duty  excuses  you,  Mr.  Hunt. 

Hunt.  Your  obedient.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Deacon  [we 
in  the  office  see  a  good  deal  of  the  lives  of  private  par- 
ties; and  1  needn't  tell  a  gentleman  of  your  experience 
it's  part  of  our  duty  to  hold  our  tongues.  Now],  it's 
come  to  my  knowledge  that  you  are  a  trifle  jokieous. 
Of  course  I  know  there  ain't  any  harm  in  that.  I've 
been  young  myself,  Mr.  Deacon,  and  speaking 

Brodie.  O,  but  pardon  me,  Mr.  Hunt,  I  am  not  going 
to  discuss  my  private  character  with  you. 

Hunt.  To  be  sure  you  ain't.  [And  do  I  blame  you  ? 
Not  me.]  But,  speaking  as  one  man  of  the  world  to 
another,  you  naturally  see  a  great  deal  of  bad  company. 

Brodie.  Not  half  so  much  as  you  do.  But  I  see  what 
you're  driving  at;  and  if  I  can  illuminate  the  course  of 
justice,  you  may  command  me.  {He  sits,  and  motions 
Hunt  to  do  likewise.) 

Hunt.  I  was  dead  sure  of  it;  and  'and  upon  'art,  Mr. 
Deacon,  I  thank  you.  Now  {consulting  pocketbook), 
did  you  ever  meet  a  certain  George  Smith  } 

Brodie.  Thefellow  they  call  Jingling  Geordie?  (Hunt 
nods.)    Yes. 

221 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Hunt.  Bad  character. 

Brodie.  Let  us  say  .  .  .  disreputable. 

Hunt.  Any  means  of  livelihood  ? 

Brodie.  I  really  cannot  pretend  to  guess.  I  have  met 
the  creature  at  cock-fights  [which,  as  you  know,  are 
my  weakness].     Perhaps  he  bets. 

Hunt.  [Mr.  Deacon,  from  what  I  know  of  the  gen- 
tleman, I  should  say  that  if  he  don't — if  he  ain't  open 
to  any  mortal  thing — he  ain't  the  man  I  mean.]  He 
used  to  be  about  with  a  man  called  Badger  Moore. 

Brodie.  The  boxer  ? 

Hunt.  That's  him.     Know  anything  of  him  > 

Brodie.  Not  much.  I  lost  five  pieces  on  him  in  a 
fight;  and  I  fear  he  sold  his  backers. 

Hunt.  Speaking  as  one  admirer  of  the  noble  art  to 
another,  Mr.  Deacon,  the  losers  always  do.  I  suppose 
the  Badger  cockfights  like  the  rest  of  us  ? 

Brodie.  I  have  met  him  in  the  pit. 

Hunt.  Well,  it's  a  pretty  sport.  I'm  as  partial  to  a 
main  as  anybody. 

Brodie.  It's  not  an  elegant  taste,  Mr.  Hunt. 

Hunt.  It  costs  as  much  as  though  it  was.  And  that 
reminds  me,  speaking  as  one  sportsman  to  another, 
Mr.  Deacon,  I  was  sorry  to  hear  that  you've  been  drop- 
ping a  hatful  of  money  lately. 

Brodie.  You  are  very  good. 

Hunt.  Four  hundred  in  three  months,  they  tell  me. 

Brodie.  Ah! 

Hunt.  So  they  say,  sir. 

Brodie.  They  have  a  perfect  right  to  say  so,  Mr.  Hunt. 

Hunt.  And  you  to  do  the  other  thing  ?  Well,  I'm  a 
good  hand  at  keeping  close  myself. 

322 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Brodie.  I  am  not  consulting  you,  Mr.  Hunt;  'tis  you 
who  are  consulting  me.  And  if  there  is  nothing  else 
{rising)  in  which  I  can  pretend  to  serve  you  .  .  .  ? 

Hunt  {rising).  That's  about  all,  sir,  unless  you  can 
put  me  on  to  anything  good  in  the  way  of  heckle  and 
spur.     I'd  try  to  look  in. 

Brodie.  O,  come,  Mr.  Hunt,  if  you  have  nothing  to 
do,  frankly  and  flatly  I  have.  This  is  not  the  day  for 
such  a  conversation;  and  so  good-bye  to  you.  {A 
knocking,  C.) 

Hunt.  Servant,  Mr.  Deacon.  (Smith  and  Moore, 
without  waiting  to  be  answered,  open  and  enter,  C. 
They  are  well  into  the  room  before  they  observe  Hunt.) 
[Talk  of  the  Devil,  sir!] 

Brodie.  What  brings  you  here  ?  (Smith  and  Moore, 
confounded  by  the  officer's  presence,  slouch  together  to 
right  of  door.  Hunt,  stopping  as  he  goes  out,  contem- 
plates the  pair,  sarcastically.  This  is  supported  by 
Moore  with  sullen  bravado;  by  Smith,  with  cringing 
airiness.) 

Hunt  {digging  Smith  in  the  ribs).  Why,  you  are  the 
very  parties  I  was  looking  for!    {He goes  out,  C.) 


SCENE  VIII 
Brodie,  Moore,  Smith 

Moore.  Wot  was  that  cove  here  about  ? 

Brodie  {with  folded  arms,  half -sitting  on  bench).   He 
was  here  about  you. 

Smith  {stiU  quite  discountenanced).    About  us  ?  Scis- 
sors!   And  what  did  you  tell  him  ? 

223 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

Brodie  (same  attitude).  I  spoke  of  you  as  I  have  found 
you.  [I  told  him  you  were  a  disreputable  hound,  and 
that  Moore  had  crossed  a  fight.]  I  told  him  you  were 
a  drunken  ass,  and  Moore  an  incompetent  and  dishonest 
boxer. 

MooRE.  Look  here,  Deacon!  Wot's  up  ?  Wot  I  ses 
is,  if  a  cove's  got  any  thundering  grudge  agin  a  cove, 
why  can't  he  spit  it  out,  I  ses. 

Brodie.  Here  are  my  answers  {producing  purse  and 
dice).  These  are  both  too  light.  This  purse  is  empty, 
these  dice  are  not  loaded.  Is  it  indiscretion  to  inquire 
how  you  share  ?    Equal  with  the  Captain,  I  presume  ? 

Smith.  It's  as  easy  as  my  eye,  Deakin.  Slink  Ainslie 
got  letting  the  merry  glass  go  round,  and  didn't  know 
the  right  bones  from  the  wrong.     That's  bdW. 

Brodie.  [What  clumsy  liars  you  are! 

Smith.  In  boyhood's  hour,  Deakin,  he  were  called 
Old  Truthful.     Little  did  he  think ] 

Brodie.  What  is  your  errand  ? 

Moore.  Business. 

Smith.  After  the  melancholy  games  of  last  night, 
Deakin,  which  no  one  deplores  so  much  as  George 
Smith,  we  thought  we'd  trot  round  —  didn't  us.  Hump? 
and  see  how  you  and  your  bankers  was  a-getting  on. 

Brodie.  Will  you  tell  me  your  errand  ? 

Moore.  You're  dry,  ain't  you  ? 

Brodie.  Am  I? 

Moore.  We  ain't  none  of  us  got  a  stiver,  that's  wot's 
the  matter  with  us. 

Brodie.  Is  it  ? 

Moore.  Ay,  strike  me,  it  is!  And  wot  we've  got  to 
is  to  put  up  the  Excise. 

Smith.  It's  the  last  plant  in  the  shrubbery,  Deakin, 

224 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

and  it's  breaking  George  the  gardener's  heart,  it  is.  We 
really  must! 

Brodie.  Must  we  ? 

Moore.  Must's  the  thundering  word.  I  mean  busi- 
ness, I  do. 

Brodie.  That's  lucky.     I  don't. 

Moore.  O,  you  don't,  don't  you  ? 

Brodie.  I  do  not. 

Moore.  Then  p'raps  you'll  tell  us  wot  you  thunder- 
ing well  do  ? 

Brodie.  What  do  I  mean  ?  I  mean  that  you  and  that 
merry-andrew  shall  walk  out  of  this  room  and  this 
house.  Do  you  suppose,  you  blockheads,  that  I  am 
blind  ?  I'm  the  Deacon,  am  I  not  ?  I've  been  your 
king  and  your  commander.  I've  led  you,  and  fed  you, 
and  thought  for  you  with  this  head.  And  you  think  to 
steal  a  march  upon  a  man  like  me  ?  I  see  you  through 
and  through  [1  know  you  like  the  clock] ;  I  read  your 
thoughts  like  print.  Brodie,  you  thought,  has  money, 
and  won't  do  the  job.  Therefore,  you  thought,  we 
must  rook  him  to  the  heart.  And  therefore,  you  put 
up  your  idiot  cockney.  And  now  you  come  round, 
and  dictate,  and  think  sure  of  your  Excise  ?  Sure  ?  Are 
you  sure  I'll  let  you  pack  with  a  whole  skin  ?  By  my 
soul,  but  I've  a  mind  to  pistol  you  like  dogs.  Out  of 
this!     Out,  I  say,  and  soil  my  home  no  more. 

Moore  {sitting).  Now  look  'ere.  Mr.  bloody  Deacon 
Brodie,  you  see  this  'ere  chair  of  yours,  don't  you  ? 
Wot  I  ses  to  you  is,  here  I  am,  I  ses,  and  here  1  mean 
to  stick.  That's  my  motto.  Who  the  devil  are  you  to 
do  the  high  and  mighty  ?  You  make  all  you  can  out  of 
us,  don't  you  ?  and  when  one  your  plants  get  cross, 
you  order  us  out  of  the  ken?    Muck!    That's  wot  I 

225 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

think  of  you.  Muck!  Don't  you  get  coming  the  nob 
over  me,  Mr.  Deacon  Brodie,  or  Til  smash  you. 

Brodie.  You  will? 

Moore.  Ay  will  I.  If  I  thundering  well  swing  for  it. 
And  as  for  clearing  out  ?  Muck!  Here  I  am,  and  here 
I  stick.     Clear  out  ?    You  try  it  on.     I'm  a  man,  I  am. 

Brodie.  This  is  plain  speaking. 

Moore.  Plain  ?  Wot  about  your  father  as  can't  walk  ? 
Wot  about  your  fme-madam  sister?  Wot  about  the 
stone-jug,  and  the  dock,  and  the  rope  in  the  open 
street  ?  Is  that  plain  ?  If  it  ain't,  you  let  me  know, 
and  I'll  spit  it  out  so  as  it'll  raise  the  roof  off  this  'ere 
ken.  Plain!  I'm  that  cove's  master,  and  I'll  make  it 
plain  enough  for  him. 

Brodie.  What  do  you  want  of  me? 

Moore.  What  do  I  want  of  you  ?  Now  you  speak 
sense.  Leslie's  is  wot  I  want  of  you.  The  Excise  is 
wot  I  want  of  you.  Leslie's  to-night  and  the  Excise 
to-morrow.  That's  wot  I  want  of  you,  and  wot  I 
thundering  well  mean  to  get. 

Brodie.  Damn  you! 

Moore.  Amen.  But  you've  got  your  orders. 

Brodie  {with  pistol).     Orders  ?  hey  ?  orders  ? 

Smith  {between  them).  Deacon,  Deacon! — Badger, 
are  you  mad  ? 

Moore.  Muck!  That's  my  motto.  Wot  I  ses  is,  has 
he  got  his  orders  or  has  he  not  ?  That's  wot's  the  mat- 
ter with  him. 

Smith.  Deacon,  half  a  tick.  Humphrey,  I'm  only  a 
light  weight,  and  you  fight  at  twelve  stone  ten,  but 
I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to  stand  still  and  see  you  hit- 
ting a  pal  when  he's  down. 

Moore.  Muck!  That's  wot  I  think  of  you. 

326 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE   LIFE 

Smith.  He's  a  cut  above  us,  ain't  he  ?  He  never  sold 
his  backers,  did  he  ?  We  couldn't  have  done  without 
him,  could  we  ?  You  dry  up  about  his  old  man,  and 
his  sister;  and  don't  go  on  hitting  a  pal  when  he's 
knocked  out  of  time  and  cannot  hit  back,  for,  damme, 
I  will  not  stand  it. 

Moore.  Amen  to  you.  But  I'm  cock  of  this  here 
thundering  walk,  and  that  cove's  got  his  orders. 

Brodie  (putting  pistol  on  bench).  I  give  in.  I  will 
do  your  work  for  you  once  more.  Leslie's  to-night  and 
the  Excise  to-morrow.  If  that  is  enough,  if  you  have 
no  more  .  .  .  orders,  you  may  count  it  as  done. 

MooRE.  Fen  larks.     No  rotten  shirking,  mind. 

Brodie.  I  have  passed  you  my  word.  And  now  you 
have  said  what  you  came  to  say,  you  must  go.  I  have 
business  here;  but  two  hours  hence  I  am  at  your  .  .  . 
orders.     Where  shall  I  await  you  ? 

Moore.  What  about  that  woman's  place  of  yours  ? 

Brodie.  Your  will  is  my  law. 

Moore.  That's  good  enough.    Now,  Dook. 

Smith.  Bye-bye,  my  William.     Don't  forget. 

SCENE  IX 

Brodie.  Trust  me.  No  man  forgets  his  vice,  you 
dogs,  or  forgives  it  either.  It  must  be  done:  Leslie's 
to-night  and  the  Excise  to-morrow.  It  shall  be  done. 
This  settles  it.  They  used  to  fetch  and  carry  for  me, 
and  now  .  .  .  I've  licked  their  boots,  have  I .?  I'm  their 
man,  their  tool,  their  chattel.  It's  the  bottom  rung  of 
the  ladder  of  shame.  I  sound  with  my  foot,  and  there's 
nothing  underneath  but  the  black  emptiness  of  damna- 
tion.   Ah,  Deacon,  Deacon,  and  so  this  is  where  you've 

227 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

been  travelling  all  these  years;  and  it's  for  this  that  you 
learned  French!  The  gallows  .  .  .  God  help  me,  it 
begins  to  dog  me  like  my  shadow.  There's  a  step  to 
take!  And  the  jerk  upon  your  spine!  How's  a  man  to 
die  with  a  night-cap  on  ?  I've  done  with  this.  Over 
yonder,  across  the  great  ocean,  is  a  new  land,  with  new 
characters,  and  perhaps  new  lives.  The  sun  shines, 
and  the  bells  ring,  and  it's  a  place  where  men  live 
gladly;  and  the  Deacon  himself  can  walk  without  ter- 
ror, and  begin  again  like  a  new-born  child.  It  must  be 
good  to  see  day  again  and  not  to  fear;  it  must  be  good 
to  be  one's  self  with  all  men.  Happy  like  a  child,  wise 
like  a  man,  free  like  God's  angels  .  .  .  should  I  work 
these  hands  off  and  eat  crusts,  there  were  a  life  to  make 
me  young  and  good  again.  And  it's  only  over  the  sea! 
O  man,  you  have  been  blind,  and  now  your  eyes  are 
opened.  It  was  half  a  life's  nightmare,  and  now  you 
are  awake.  Up,  Deacon,  up,  it's  hope  that's  at  the 
window  1   Mary!  Mary!  Mary! 

SCENE  X 

Brodie,  Mary,  Old  Brodie 

(Brodie  has  fallen  into  a  chair,  with  his  face  upon  the 
table.  Enter  Mary,  by  the  side  door,  ptishing  her 
father's  chair.  She  is  supposed  to  have  advanced  far 
enough  for  stage  purposes  before  Brodie  is  aware  of 
her.    He  starts  up,  and  runs  to  her. ) 

Brodie.  Look  up,  my  lass,  look  up,  and  be  a  woman  I 
I .  .  .  O  kiss  me,  Mary !  give  me  a  kiss  for  my  good  news. 
Mary.  Good  news,  Will  ?    Is  it  changed  ? 
228 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Brodie.  Changed  ?  Why,  the  world's  a  different  col- 
our! It  was  night,  and  now  it's  broad  day,  and  I  trust 
myself  again.  You  must  wait,  dear,  wait,  and  I  must 
work  and  work ;  and  before  the  week  is  out,  as  sure 
as  God  sees  me,  I'll  have  made  you  happy.  O  you 
may  think  me  broken,  hounds,  but  the  Deacon's  not 
the  man  to  be  run  down;  trust  him,  he  shall  turn  a 
corner  yet,  and  leave  you  snarling!  And  you.  Poll,  you. 
I've  done  nothing  for  you  yet;  but,  please  God,  I'll 
make  your  life  a  life  of  gold;  and  wherever  I  am,  I'll 
have  a  part  in  your  happiness,  and  you'll  know  it,  by 
heaven !  and  bless  me. 

Mary.  O  Willie,  look  at  him ;  I  think  he  hears  you, 
and  is  trying  to  be  glad  with  us. 

Old  Brodie.  My  son— Deacon— better  man  than  I  was. 

Brodie.  O  for  God's  sake,  hear  him ! 

Mary.  He  is  quite  happy.  Will,  and  so  am  I  .  .  . 
so  am  I. 

Brodie.  Hear  me,  Mary.  This  is  a  big  moment  in 
our  two  lives.  I  swear  to  you  by  the  father  here  be- 
tween us  that  it  shall  not  be  fault  of  mine  if  this  thing 
fails ;  if  this  ship  founders  you  have  set  your  hopes  in. 
1  swear  it  by  our  father;  I  swear  it  by  God's  judgments. 

Mary.  I  want  no  oaths.  Will. 

Brodie.  No,  but  I  do.  And  prayers,  Mary,  prayers. 
Pray  night  and  day  upon  your  knees.  I  must  move 
mountains. 

Old  Brodie.  A  wise  son  maketh  —  maketh 

Brodie.  A  glad  father?  And  does  your  son,  the 
Deacon,  make  you  glad  ?  O  heaven  of  heavens,  if  I 
were  a  good  man. 

Act-Drop 
229 


ACT  III 

TABLEAU  V 
King's  Evidence 

Tbe  Stage  represents  a  public  place  in  Edinburgh 

SCENE  I 

Jean,  Smith,  and  Moore 

( They  loiter  in  Z»,  and  stand  looking  about  as  for  some- 
body not  there.  Smith  is  hat  in  hand  /o  Jean  ;  Moore 
as  usual. ) 

Moore.  Wot  did  I  tell  you  ?  Is  he  'ere,  or  ain't  he  ? 
Now,  then.  Slink  by  name  and  Slink  by  nature,  that's 
wot's  the  matter  with  him. 

Jean.  He'll  no  be  lang;  he's  regular  enough,  if  that 
was  a'. 

Moore.  I'd  regular  him ;    I'd  break  his  back. 

Smith.  Badger,  you  brute,  you  hang  on  to  the  les- 
sons of  your  dancing-master.  None  but  the  genteel 
deserves  the  fair;  does  they.  Duchess? 

Moore.  O  rot!  Did  I  insult  the  blowen  ?  Wot's  the 
matter  with  me  is  Slink  Ainslie. 

Smith.  All  right,  old  Crossed-in-love.  Give  him  forty 
230 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

winks,  and  he'll  turn  up  as  fresh  as  clean  sawdust  and 
as  respectable  as  a  new  Bible. 

Moore.  That's  right  enough;  but  I  ain't  agoing  to 
stand  here  all  day  for  him.  I'm  for  a  drop  of  something 
short,  I  am.  You  tell  him  I  showed  you  that  (showing 
his  doubled  fist).  That's  wot's  the  matter  with  him. 
{He  lurches  out,  R.) 

SCENE  II 
Smith  and]EKHy  to  whom  Hunt,  and  afterwards  Moore 

Smith  {critically).  No,  Duchess,  he  has  not  good 
manners. 

Jean.  Ay,  he's  an  impident  man. 

Smith.  So  he  is,  Jean ;  and  for  the  matter  of  that  he 
ain't  the  only  one. 

Jean.  Geordie,  I  want  nae  mair  o'  your  nonsense, 
mind. 

Smith.  There's  our  old  particular  the  Deacon,  now. 
Why  is  he  ashamed  of  a  lovely  woman  ?  That's  not 
my  idea  of  the  Young  Chevalier,  Jean.  If  I  had  luck, 
we  should  be  married,  and  retire  to  our  estates  in  the 
country,  shouldn't  us  ?  and  go  to  church  and  be  happy, 
like  the  nobility  and  gentry. 

Jean.  Geordie  Smith,  div  ye  mean  ye'd  mairry  me  ? 

Smith.  Mean  it  ?  What  else  has  ever  been  the  'umble 
petition  of  your  honest  but  well-meaning  friend,  Roman, 
and  fellow-countryman .?  I  know  the  Deacon's  your 
man,  and  1  know  he's  a  cut  above  G.  S. ;  but  he  won't 
last,  Jean,  and  1  shall. 

Jean.  Ay,  I'm  muckle  ta'en  up  wi'  him;  wha  could 
help  it  ? 

231 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Smith.  Well,  and  my  sort  don't  grow  on  apple-trees 
either. 

Jean.  Ye're  a  fine,  cracky,  neebourly  body,  Geordie, 
if  ye  wad  just  let  me  be. 

Smith.  I  know  1  ain't  a  Scotchman  born. 

Jean.  I  dinna  think  sae  muckle  the  waur  o'  ye  even 
for  that;  if  ye  would  just  let  me  be. 

[Hunt  (entering  behind,  aside).  Are  they  thick  ? 
Anyhow,  it's  a  second  chance.] 

Smith.  But  he  won't  last,  Jean;  and  when  he  leaves 
you,  you  come  to  me.  Is  that  your  taste  in  pastry  ? 
That's  the  kind  of  harticle  that  1  present. 

Hunt  (surprising  them  as  in  Tableau  /.).  Why, 
you're  the  very  parties  I  was  looking  for! 

Jean.  Mercy  me! 

Smith.  Damn  it,  Jerry,  this  is  unkind. 

Hunt.  [Now  this  is  what  1  call  a  picter  of  good  for- 
tune.] Ain't  it  strange  1  should  have  dropped  across 
you  comfortable  and  promiscuous  like  this  ? 

Jean  (stolidly).  1  hope  ye're  middling  weel,  Mr. 
Hunt?  (Going.)    Mr.  Smith! 

Smith.  Mrs.  Watt,  ma'am!  (Going.) 

Hunt.  Hold  hard,  George.  Speaking  as  one  lady's 
man  to  another,  turn  about's  fair  play.  You've  had 
your  confab,  and  now  I'm  going  to  have  mine.  [Not 
that  I've  done  with  you;  you  stand  by  and  wait.] 
Ladies  first,  George,  ladies  first;  that's  the  size  of  it. 
(To  Jean,  aside.)  Now,  Mrs.  Watt,  I  take  it  you  ain't 
a  natural  fool  ? 

Jean.  And  thank  ye  kindly,  Mr.  Hunt. 

Smith  (interfering).    Jean  .  .  .  ! 

Hunt  (keeping  him  off)-  Half  a  tick,  George.  (To 
232 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Jean.)  Mrs.  Watt,  I've  a  warrant  in  my  pocket.  One, 
two,  three:  will  you  peach? 

Jean.  Whatten  kind  of  a  word'll  that  be  ? 

Smith.  Mum  it  is,  Jean ! 

Hunt.  When  you've  done  dancing,  George!  {To 
Jean.)  It  ain't  a  pretty  expression,  my  dear,  I  own  it. 
Will  you  blow  the  gaff  is  perhaps  more  tenderer. 

Jean.  I  think  yeVe  a  real  strange  way  o'  expressin' 
yoursel'. 

Hunt  {to  Jean).  I  can't  waste  time  on  you,  my  girl. 
It's  now  or  never.     Will  you  turn  king's  evidence.? 

Jean.  I  think  ye'll  have  made  a  mistake,  like. 

Hunt.  Well,  I'm  .  .  .  !  {Separating  them.)  [No, 
not  yet;  don't  push  me.]  George's  turn  now.  {To 
George.)    George,  I've  a  warrant  in  my  pocket. 

Smith.  As  per  usual,  Jerry  ? 

Hunt.  Now  I  want  king's  evidence. 

Smith.  Ah !  so  you  came  a  cropper  with  her,  Jerry. 
Pride  had  a  fall. 

Hunt.  A  free  pardon  and  fifty  shiners  down. 

Smith.  A  free  pardon,  Jerry  ? 

Hunt.  Don't  I  tell  you  so  ? 

Smith.  And  fifty  down  ?  fifty  ? 

Hunt.  On  the  nail. 

Smith.  So  you  came  a  cropper  with  her,  and  then 
you  tried  it  on  with  me  ? 

Hunt.  I  suppose  you  mean  you're  a  born  idiot  ? 

Smith.  What  I  mean  is,  Jerry,  that  you've  broke  my 
heart.  I  used  to  look  up  to  you  like  a  party  might  to 
Julius  Caesar.  One  more  of  boyhood's  dreams  gone 
pop.     {Enter  }Aqqke,  L.) 

Hunt  {to  both).  Come,  then,  I'll  take  the  pair,  and 
233 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

be  damned  to  you.  Free  pardon  to  both,  fifty  down 
and  the  Deacon  out  of  the  way.  I  don't  care  for  you 
commoners,  it's  the  Deacon  I  want. 

Jean  (looking  off  stolidly).  I  think  the  kirks  are 
scalin'.     There  seems  to  be  mair  people  in  the  streets. 

Hunt.  O  that's  the  way,  is  it }  Do  you  know  that 
I  can  hang  you,  my  woman,  and  your  fancy  man  as 
well? 

Jean.  I  daur  say  ye  would  like  fine,  Mr.  Hunt;  and 
here's  my  service  to  you.     {Going.) 

Hunt.  George,  don't  you  be  a  tomfool,  anyway. 
Think  of  the  blowen  here,  and  have  brains  for  two. 

Smith  (going).  Ah,  Jerry,  if  you  knew  anything,  how 
different  you  would  talk !     (They  go  off  together ,  R.) 

SCENE  III 
Hunt,  Moore 

Hunt.  Half  a  tick.  Badger.     You're  a  man  of  parts, 

you  are;  you're  solid,  you're  a  true-born  Englishman; 
you  ain't  a  Jerry-go-Nimble  like  him.  Do  you  know 
what  your  pal  the  Deacon's  worth  to  you  ?  Fifty 
golden  Georges  and  a  free  pardon.  No  questions 
asked,  and  no  receipts  demanded.  What  do  you  say  ? 
Is  it  a  deal  ? 
Moore  (as  to  himself).  Muck.     (He  goes  out,  R.) 

SCENE   IV 

Hunt,  to  whom  Ainslie 

Hunt  (looking  after  them  ruefully).  And  these  were 
the  very  parties  I  was  looking  for!     [Ah,  Jerry,  Jerry, 

234 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE   LIFE 

if  they  knew  this  at  the  office!]  Well,  the  market 
price  of  that  'ere  two  hundred  is  a  trifle  on  the  decline 
and  fall.  {Looking  L.)  Hullo!  (Slapping  his  thigh). 
Send  me  victorious!  It's  king's  evidence  on  two  legs. 
{Advancing  with  great  cordiality  to  meet  Ainslie,  who 
enters  L.)  And  so  your  name's  Andrew  Ainslie,  is  it? 
As  I  was  saying,  you're  the  very  party  I  was  looking 
for.  Ain't  it  strange,  now,  that  I  should  have  dropped 
across  you  comfortable  and  promiscuous  like  this  ? 

Ainslie.  I  dinna  ken  wha  ye  are,  an'  I'm  ill  for  my  bed. 

Hunt.  Let  your  bed  wait,  Andrew.  I  want  a  little 
chat  with  you;  just  a  quiet  little  sociable  wheeze. 
Just  about  our  friends,  you  know.  About  Badger 
Moore,  and  George  the  Dook,  and  Jemmy  Rivers,  and 
Deacon  Brodie,  Andrew.     Particularly  Deacon  Brodie. 

Ainslie.  They're  nae  friens  o*  mine's,  mister.  I  ken 
naething  an'  naebody.  An'  noo  I'll  get  to  my  bed, 
wulln't  I  ? 

Hunt.  We're  going  to  have  our  little  talk  out  first. 
After  that  perhaps  I'll  let  you  go,  and  perhaps  I  won't. 
It  all  depends  on  how  we  get  along  together.  Now, 
in  a  general  way,  Andrew,  and  speaking  of  a  man  as 
you  find  him,  I'm  all  for  peace  and  quietness  myself. 
That's  my  usual  game,  Andrew,  but  when  I  do  make 
a  dust  I'm  considered  by  my  friends  to  be  rather  a  good 
hand  at  it.     So  don't  you  tread  upon  the  worm. 

Ainslie.  But  I'm  sayin' 

Hunt.  You  leave  that  to  me,  Andrew.  You  shall 
do  your  pitch  presently.  I'm  first  on  the  ground,  and 
I  lead  off.  With  a  question,  Andrew.  Did  you  ever 
hear  in  your  life  of  such  a  natural  curiosity  as  a  Bow 
Street  Runner  ? 

^35 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

AiNSLiE.  Aiblins  ay  an'  aiblins  no. 

Hunt.  ''Aiblins  ay  and  aiblins  no."  Very  good  in- 
deed, Andrew.  Now,  I'll  ask  you  another.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  Bow  Street  Runner,  Andrew  ?  With  the 
naked  eye,  so  to  speak  ? 

AiNSLiE.  What's  your  wull  ? 

Hunt.  Artful  bird !  Now  since  we're  getting  on  so  cosy 
and  so  free,  I'll  ask  you  another,  Andrew.  Should  you 
like  to  see  a  Bow  Street  Runner  ?  {Producing  staff.) 
'Cos,  if  so,  you've  only  got  to  cast  your  eyes  on  me. 
Do  you  queer  the  red  weskit,  Andrew  }  Pretty  colour, 
ain't  it }  So  nice  and  warm  for  the  winter  too.  (AiN- 
SLiE  diveSy  Hunt  collars  Mm.)  No,  you  don't.  Not 
this  time.  Run  away  like  that  before  we've  finished 
our  little  conversation  ?  You're  a  nice  young  man, 
you  are.  Suppose  we  introduce  our  wrists  into  these 
here  darbies  ?  Now  we  shall  get  along  cosier  and 
freer  than  ever.  Want  to  lie  down,  do  you?  All 
right!  anything  to  oblige. 

AiNSLiE  {grovelling).  It  wasna  me,  it  wasna  me.  It's 
bad  companions;  I've  been  lost  wi'  bad  companions 
an'  the  drink.  An'  O  mister,  ye'll  be  a  kind  gentleman 
to  a  puir  lad,  an'  me  sae  weak,  an'  fair  rotten  wi'  the 
drink  an'  that.  Ye've  a  bonnie  kind  heart,  my  dear, 
dear  gentleman;  ye  wadna  hang  sitchan  a  thing  as  me. 
I'm  no  fit  to  hang.  They  ca'  me  the  Cannleworm! 
An'  I'll  dae  somethin'  for  ye,  wulln't  I  ?  An'  ye'll  can 
hang  the  ithers  ? 

Hunt.  I  thought  I  hadn't  mistook  my  man.  Now, 
you  look  here,  Andrew  Ainslie,  you're  a  bad  lot.  I've 
evidence  to  hang  you  fifty  times  over.  But  the  Deacon 
is  my  mark.     Will  you  peach,  or  wont  you.^    You 

336 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

blow  the  gaff,  and  I'll  pull  you  through.  You  don't, 
and  I'll  scragg  you  as  sure  as  my  name's  Jerry  Hunt. 

AiNSLiE.  I'll  dae  onything.  It's  the  hanging  fleys 
me.     I'll  dae  onything,  onything  no  to  hang. 

Hunt.  Don't  lie  crawling  there,  but  get  up  and  an- 
swer me  like  a  man.  Ain't  this  Deacon  Brodie  the  fine 
workman  that's  been  doing  all  these  tip-topping  bur- 
glaries ? 

AiNSLiE.  It's  him,  mister;  it's  him.  That's  the  man. 
Ye're  in  the  very  bit.  Deacon  Brodie.  I'll  can  tak'  ye 
to  his  vera  door. 

Hunt.  How  do  you  know  ? 

AiNSLiE.  I  gi'ed  him  a  han'  wi'  them  a'.  It  was  him 
an'  Badger  Moore,  and  Geordie  Smith;  an'  they  gart 
me  gang  wi'  them  whether  or  no;  I'm  that  weak,  an' 
whiles  I'm  donner'd  wi'  the  drink.  But  I  ken  a',  an' 
I'll  tell  a'.  And  O  kind  gentleman,  you'll  speak  to  their 
lordships  for  me,  an'  I'll  no  be  hangit  .  .  .  I'll  no  be 
hangit,  wull  I  ? 

Hunt.  But  you  shared,  didn't  you  ?  I  wonder  what 
share  they  thought  you  worth.  How  much  did  you 
get  for  last  night's  performance  down  at  Mother 
Clarke's  ? 

Afnslie.  Just  five  pund,  mister.  Five  pund.  As  sure's 
deith  it  wadna  be  a  penny  mair.  No  but  I  askit  mair: 
1  did  that;  I'll  no  deny  it,  mister.  But  Badger  kickit 
me,  an'  Geordie,  he  said  a  bad  sweir,  an'  made  he'd 
cut  the  liver  out  o'  me,  an'  catch  fish  wi't.  It's  been 
that  way  frae  the  first:  an  aith  an'  a  bawbee  was  aye 
guid  eneuch  for  puir  Andra. 

Hunt.  Well,  and  why  did  they  do  it  ?  I  saw  Jemmy 
dance  a  hornpipe  on  the  table,  and  booze  the  company 

237 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

all  round,  when  the  Deacon  was  gone.  What  made 
you  cross  the  fight,  and  play  booty  with  your  own 
man? 

AiNSLiE.  Just  to  make  him  rob  the  Excise,  mister. 
They're  wicked,  wicked  men. 

Hunt.  And  is  he  right  for  it  ? 

AiNSLiE.  Ay  is  he. 

Hunt.  By  jingo!   When'sitfor? 

AiNSLiE.  Dear,  kind  gentleman,  I  dinna  rightly  ken: 
the  Deacon's  that  sair  angered  wi'  me.  I'm  to  get  my 
orders  frae  Geordie  the  nicht. 

Hunt.  O,  you're  to  get  your  orders  from  Geordie, 
are  you?  Now  look  here,  Ainslie.  You  know  me. 
I'm  Hunt  the  Runner;  I  put  Jemmy  Rivers  in  the  jug 
this  morning;  I've  got  you  this  evening.  I  mean  to 
wind  up  with  the  Deacon.  You  understand  ?  All  right. 
Then  just  you  listen.  I'm  going  to  take  these  here 
bracelets  ofT,  and  send  you  home  to  that  celebrated  bed 
of  yours.  Only,  as  soon  as  you've  seen  the  Dook  you 
come  straight  round  to  me  at  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal's, 
and  let  me  know  the  Dook's  views.  One  word,  mind, 
and  .  .  .  cl'k!   It's  a  bargain  ? 

Ainslie.  Never  you  fear  that.  I'll  tak'  my  bannet  an* 
come  straucht  to  ye.  Eh  God,  I'm  glad  it's  nae  mair 
nor  that  to  start  wi*.  An'  may  the  Lord  bless  ye,  dear, 
kind  gentleman,  for  your  kindness.  May  the  Lord 
bless  ye. 

Hunt.  You  pad  the  hoof. 

Ainslie  {going  out).  An'  so  I  wull,  wulln't  I  not? 
An*  bless,  bless  ye  while  there's  breath  in  my  body, 
wulln't  I  not  ? 

Hunt  (solus).     You're  a  nice  young  man,  Andrew 
238 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Ainslie.  Jemmy  Rivers  and  the  Deacon  in  two  days! 
By  jingo!  (^He  dances  an  instant  gravely,  whistling  to 
himself.)  Jerry,  that  'ere  little  two  hundred  of  ours  is 
as  safe  as  the  bank. 


TABLEAU  VI 

Unmasked 

The  Stage  represents  a  room  in  Leslie's  home.  ^4  practicable  window, 
C,  through  which  a  hand  of  strong  moonlight  falls  into  the  room. 
Near  the  window  a  strong-box.  A  practicable  door  in  wing,  L. 
Candlelight. 

SCENE  I 

Leslie,  Lawson,  Mary,  seated.    Brodie  at  back,  walking 
between  the  windows  and  the  strong-box. 

Lawson.  Weel,  weel,  weel,  weel,  nae  doubt. 

Leslie.  Mr.  Lawson,  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with 
Brodie's  word ;  I  will  wait  gladly. 

Lawson.  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  that. 

Brodie  {behind  Lawson).    Nor  for  it. 

Lawson.  For  it }  for  it,  William  ?  Ye're  perfectly 
richt  there.  {To  Leslie.)  Just  you  do  what  William 
tells  you ;  ye  canna  do  better  than  that. 

Mary.  Dear  uncle,  I  see  you  are  vexed;  but  Will  and 
\  are  perfectly  agreed  on  the  best  course.  Walter  and  I 
are  young.    Oh,  we  can  wait;  we  can  trust  each  other. 

Brodie  {from  behind).  Leslie,  do  you  think  it  safe  to 
keep  this  strong-box  in  your  room  ? 

Leslie.  It  does  not  trouble  me. 

Brodie.  1  would  not.     Tis  close  to  the  window. 
239 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR   THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Leslie.  It's  on  the  right  side  of  it. 

Brodie.  I  give  you  my  advice:  I  would  not. 

Lawson.  He  may  be  right  there  too,  Mr.  Leslie. 

Brodie.  I  give  him  fair  warning:  it's  not  safe. 

Leslie.  I  have  a  different  treasure  to  concern  myself 
about;  if  all  goes  right  with  that  I  shall  be  well  con- 
tented. 

Mary.  Walter! 

Lawson.  Ay,  bairns,  ye  speak  for  your  age. 

Leslie.  Surely,  sir,  for  every  age ;  the  ties  of  blood, 
of  love,  of  friendship,  these  are  life's  essence. 

Mary.  And  for  no  one  is  it  truer  than  my  uncle.  If 
he  live  to  be  a  thousand,  he  will  still  be  young  in  heart, 
full  of  love,  full  of  trust. 

Lawson.  Ah,  lassie,  it's  a  wicked  world. 

Mary.  Yes,  you  are  out  of  sorts  to-day;  we  know 
that. 

Leslie.  Admitted  that  you  know  more  of  life,  sir; 
admitted  (if  you  please)  that  the  world  is  wicked;  yet 
you  do  not  lose  trust  in  those  you  love. 

Lawson.  Weel  ...  ye  get  gliffs,  ye  ken. 

Leslie.  I  suppose  so.  We  can  all  be  shaken  for  a 
time;  but  not,  I  think,  in  our  friends.  We  are  not  de- 
ceived in  them;  in  the  few  that  we  admit  into  our 
hearts. 

Mary.  Never  in  these. 

Leslie.  We  know  these  (to  Brodie),  and  we  think 
the  world  of  them. 

Brodie  {at  back).  We  are  more  acquainted  with 
each  other's  tailors,  believe  me.  You,  Leslie,  are  a  very 
pleasant  creature.  My  uncle  Lawson  is  the  Procurator- 
Fiscal.     I  — What  am   I?— I   am  the  Deacon  of  the 

240 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Wrights,  my  ruffles  are  generally  clean.  And  you  think 
the  world  of  me  ?    Bravo ! 

Leslie.  Ay,  and  I  think  the  world  of  you. 

Brodie  {at  back,  pointing  to  Lawson).     Ask  him. 

Lawson.  Hoot-toot.  A  wheen  nonsense:  an  honest 
man's  an  honest  man,  and  a  randy  thiefs  a  randy  thief, 
and  neither  mair  nor  less.  Mary,  my  lamb,  it's  time 
you  were  hame,  and  had  your  beauty  sleep. 

Mary.  Do  you  not  come  with  us  ? 

Lawson.  I  gang  the  ither  gate,  my  lamb.  (Leslie 
helps  Mary  on  with  her  cloak,  and  they  say  farewell  at 
back,  Brodie,  for  the  first  time,  comes  front  with  Law- 
son.)    Sae  ye've  consented? 

Brodie.  As  you  see. 

Lawson.  Ye'll  can  pay  it  back  ? 

Brodie.  I  will. 

Lawson.  And  how  ?  That's  what  Tm  wonderin'  to 
mysel'. 

Brodie.  Ay,  God  knows  that. 

Mary.  Come,  Will. 


SCENE  II 

Leslie,  Lawson  {wrapping  up) 

Leslie.  I  wonder  what  ails  Brodie  ? 

Lawson,  How  should  I  ken  ?  What  should  I  ken 
that  ails  him  } 

Leslie.  He  seemed  angry  even  with  you. 

Lawson  {impatient).  Hoot  awa'. 

Leslie.  Of  course,  1  know.  But  you  see,  on  the 
very  day  when  our  engagement  is  announced,  even 

241 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

the  best  of  men  may  be  susceptible.     You  yourself 
seem  not  quite  pleased. 

Lawson  {with  great  irritation).  I'm  perfectly  pleased. 
I'm  perfectly  delighted.  If  I  werena  an  auld  man,  I'd 
be  just  beside  mysel'  wi'  happiness. 

Leslie.  Well,  I  only  fancied. 

Lawson.  Ye  had  nae  possible  excuse  to  fancy. 
Fancy  }  Perfect  trash  and  nonsense.  Look  at  yersel'. 
Ye  look  like  a  ghaist,  ye're  white-like,  ye're  black 
aboot  the  een ;  and  do  ye  find  me  deavin*  ye  wi'  fan- 
cies ?    Or  William  Brodie  either  ?    I'll  say  that  for  him. 

Leslie.  'Tis  not  sorrow  that  alters  my  complexion; 
I've  something  else  on  hand.  Come,  I'll  tell  you,  un- 
der seal.     I've  not  been  in  bed  till  daylight  for  a  week. 

Lawson.  Weel,  there's  nae  sense  in  the  like  o'  that. 

Leslie.  Gad,  but  there  is  though.  Why,  Procurator, 
this  is  town's  business;  this  is  a  municipal  affair;  I'm 
a  public  character.  Why  ?  Ah,  here's  a  nut  for  the 
Crown  Prosecutor!    I'm  a  bit  of  a  party  to  a  robbery. 

Lawson.  Guid  guide  us,  man,  what  d'ye  mean  ? 

Leslie.  You  shall  hear.  A  week  ago  to-night,  I  was 
passing  through  this  very  room  without  a  candle  on 
my  way  to  bed,  when  .  .  .  what  should  I  see,  but  a 
masked  man  fumbling  at  that  window!  How  he  did 
the  Lord  knows.  I  suspect.  Procurator,  it  was  not  the 
first  he'd  tried  ...  for  he  opened  it  as  handily  as  his 
own  front  door. 

Lawson.  Preserve  me!  Another  of  thae  robberies! 

Leslie.  That's  it.  And,  of  course,  I  tried  to  seize  him. 
But  the  rascal  was  too  quick.  He  was  down  and  away 
in  an  instant.  You  never  saw  a  thing  so  daring  and 
adroit. 

24a 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Lawson.  Is  that  a'  ?  Ye're  a  bauld  lad,  I'll  say  that 
for  ye.     I'm  glad  it  wasna  waur. 

Leslie.  Yes,  that's  all  plain  sailing.  But  here's  the 
hitch.  Why  didn't  I  tell  the  Procurator-Fiscal  ?  You 
never  thought  of  that. 

Lawson.  No,  man.     Why.? 

Leslie.  Aha!  There's  the  riddle.  Will  you  guess? 
No?  ,  .  .  I  thought  I  knew  the  man. 

Lawson.  What  d'ye  say  ? 

Leslie.  I  thought  I  knew  him. 

Lawson.  Wha  was't  ? 

Leslie.  Ah,  there  you  go  beyond  me.  That  I  can- 
not tell. 

Lawson.  As  God  sees  ye,  laddie,  are  ye  speaking 
truth  ? 

Leslie.  Well  ...  of  course  I 

Lawson.  The  haill  truth  ? 

Leslie.  All  of  it.     Why  not  ? 

Lawson.  Man,  I'd  a  kind  o'  gliff. 

Leslie.  Why,  what  were  you  afraid  of?  Had  you  a 
suspicion  ? 

Lawson.  Me  ?  Me  a  suspicion  ?  Ye're  daft,  sir;  and 
me  the  Crown  ofifeecial!  ...  Eh  man,  I'm  a*  shakin' 
.  .  .  And  sae  ye  thocht  ye  kennt  him  ? 

Leslie.  I  did  that.  And  what's  more,  I've  sat  every 
night  in  case  of  his  return.  I  promise  you.  Procurator, 
he  shall  not  slip  me  twice.  Meanwhile  I'm  worried 
and  put  out.  You  understand  how  such  a  fancy  will 
upset  a  man.  I'm  uneasy  with  my  friends  and  on  bad 
terms  with  my  own  conscience.  I  keep  watching, 
spying,  comparing,  putting  two  and  two  together, 
hunting  for  resemblances  until  my  head  goes  round. 

243 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

It's  like  a  puzzle  in  a  dream.  Only  yesterday  I  thought 
I  had  him.     And  who  d'  you  think  it  was? 

Lawson.  Wha?  Wha  was't  ?  Speak,  Mr.  Leslie, 
speak.     I'm  an  auld  man;  dinna  forget  that. 

Leslie.  I  name  no  names.  It  would  be  unjust  to  him ; 
and,  upon  my  word,  it  was  so  silly  it  would  be  unfair 
to  me.  However,  here  I  sit,  night  after  night.  1  mean 
him  to  come  back;  come  back  he  shall;  and  Til  tell  you 
who  he  was  next  morning. 

Lawson.  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  Mr.  Leslie;  ye  dinna 
ken  what  ye  micht  see.  And  then,  leave  him  alane, 
he'll  come  nae  mair.  And  sitting  up  a*  nicht  .  .  .  it's  a 
factum  imprestabiky  as  we  say:  a  thing  impossible  to 
man.  Gang  ye  to  your  bed,  like  a  guid  laddie,  and 
sleep  lang  and  soundly,  and  bonnie,  bonnie  dreams  to 
ye!  (Without)  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  and  gang  ye  to 
your  bed. 

SCENE  III 

Leslie 

Leslie  (calling).  In  good  time,  never  fear!  (He  care- 
fully bolts  and  chains  the  door.)  The  old  gentleman 
seems  upset.  What  for,  I  wonder?  Has  he  had  a 
masked  visitor  ?  Why  not?  It's  the  fashion.  Out  with 
the  lights.  (Blows  out  the  candles.  The  fiage  is  only 
lighted  by  the  moon  through  the  window.)  He  is  sure  to 
come,  one  night  or  other.  He  must  come.  Right  or 
wrong,  I  feel  it  in  the  air.  Man,  but  I  know  you,  I 
know  you  somewhere.  That  trick  of  the  shoulders, 
the  hang  of  the  clothes  —  whose  are  they?  Where 
have  \  seen  them  ?    And  then,  that  single  look  of  the 

244 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

eye,  that  one  glance  about  the  room  as  the  window 
opened  ...  it  is  almost  friendly;  I  have  caught  it 
over  the  glass's  rim !  If  it  should  be  ...  his  ?  No, 
his  it  is  not. 

Watchman  (without).  Past  ten  o'clock,  and  a  fine 
moonlight  night. 

Another  (further  away).  Past  ten  o'clock,  and  all's 
well. 

Leslie.  Past  ten?  Ah,  there's  a  long  night  before 
you  and  me,  watchmen.  Heavens,  what  a  trade!  But 
it  will  be  something  to  laugh  over  with  Mary  and  .  .  . 
with  him  ?  Damn  it,  the  delusion  is  too  strong  for  me. 
It's  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of.  **  We  Brodies":  how 
she  says  it !  *'  We  Brodies  and  our  Deacon  " :  what  a 
pride  she  takes  in  it,  and  how  good  it  sounds  to  me! 
*' Deacon  of  his  craft,  sir,  Deacon  of  the  ..."  (Brodie, 
masked,  appears  without  at  the  window,  which  he  pro- 
ceeds to  force.)  Ha!  I  knew  he'd  come.  I  was  sure 
of  it.  (He  crouches  near  and  nearer  to  the  window, 
keeping  in  the  shade.)  And  I  know  you  too.  I  swear 
I  know  you. 

SCENE  IV 

Brodie,   Leslie 

Brodie  enters  by  the  window  with  assurance  and 
ease,  closes  it  silently,  and  proceeds  to  traverse  the 
room.  As  he  moves,  Leslie  leaps  upon  and  grapples 
him. 

Leslie.  Take  off  that  mask! 
Brodie.  Hands  off! 
Leslie.  Take  off  the  mask! 
245 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Brodie.  Leave  go,  by  God,  leave  go! 

Leslie.  Take  it  off  I 

Brodie  {overpowered).  Leslie  .  .  . 

Leslie.  Ah!  you  know  me!  (Succeeds  in  tearing 
off  the  mask. )     Brodie ! 

Brodie  (in  the  moonlight).  Brodie. 

Leslie.  You  .  .  .  you,  Brodie,  you? 

Brodie.  Brodie,  sir,  Brodie  as  you  see. 

Leslie.  What  does  it  mean  }  What  does  it  mean, 
my  God  ?  Were  you  here  before  ?  Is  this  the  second 
time  ?  Are  you  a  thief,  man  ?  are  you  a  thief?  Speak, 
speak,  or  I'll  kill  you. 

Brodie.  I  am  a  thief. 

Leslie.  And  my  friend,  my  own  friend,  and  .  .  . 
Mary,  Mary!  .  .  .  Deacon,  Deacon,  for  God's  sake,  no! 

Brodie.  God  help  me! 

Leslie.   '*  We  Brodies!  We  Brodies!" 

Brodie.  Leslie 

Leslie.  Stand  off!  Don't  touch  me!  Your're  a 
thief! 

Brodie.  Leslie,  Leslie 

Leslie.  A  thief's  sister!  Why  are  you  here?  why 
are  you  here?  Tell  me!  Why  do  you  not  speak? 
Man,  I  know  you  of  old.  Are  you  Brodie,  and  have 
nothing  to  say  ? 

Brodie.  To  say  ?  Not  much  —  God  help  me  —  and 
commonplace,  commonplace  like  sin.  I  was  honest 
once;  I  made  a  false  step;  I  couldn't  retrace  it;  and 
.  .  .  that  is  all. 

Leslie.  You  have  forgot  the  bad  companions! 

Brodie.  I  did  forget  them.     They  were  there. 

Leslie.  Commonplace!  Commonplace!  Do  you 
246 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE   LIFE 

speak  to  me,  do  you  reason  with  me,  do  you  make  ex- 
cuses ?  You  —  a  man  found  out,  shamed,  a  liar,  a  thief 
—  a  man  that's  killed  me,  killed  this  heart  in  my  body; 
and  you  speak !  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  hold  your  life 
in  my  hand;  have  you  thought  of  that?  What  am  I 
to  do  ? 

Brodie.  Do  what  you  please;  you  have  me  trapped. 

(Jean  Watt  is  heard  singing  without  two  bars  oj 
"  IVanderin'  Willie/*  by  way  of  signal,) 

Leslie.  What  is  that  ? 

Brodie.  A  signal. 

Leslie.  What  does  it  mean  ? 

Brodie.  Danger  to  me;  there  is  some  one  coming. 

Leslie.  Danger  to  you  ? 

Brodie.  Some  one  is  coming.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me  ?    {A  knock  at  the  door.) 

Leslie  {after  a  pause).     Sit  down.     {Knocking.) 

Brodie.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ? 

Leslie.  Sit  down.  (Brodie  sits  in  darkest  part  of 
stage.  Leslie  opens  door,  and  admits  Lawson.  Door 
open  till  end  of  Adt.) 


SCENE  V 
Brodie,  Lawson,  Leslie 

Lawson.  This  is  an  unco'  time  to  come  to  your  door; 
but  eh,  laddie,  I  couldna  bear  to  think  o*  ye  sittin'  your 
lane  in  the  dark. 

Leslie.  It  was  very  good  of  you. 

Lawson.  I'm  no  very  fond  of  playing  hidee  in  the 

dark  mysel';  and  noo  that  I'm  here 

247 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Leslie.  I  will  give  you  a  light.  {He  lights  the  cart'- 
dies.     Lights  up. ) 

Lawson.  God  A'michty!    William  Brodie! 

Leslie.  Yes,  Brodie  was  good  enough  to  watch 
with  me. 

Lawson.  But  he  gaed  awa*  ...  I  dinna  see  .  .  . 
an*  Lord  be  guid  to  us,  the  window's  open! 

Leslie.  A  trap  we  laid  for  them :  a  device  of  Brodie's. 

Brodie  (to  Lawson).  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief. 
{Passing  to  Leslie,  aside. )  Walter  Leslie,  God  will  re- 
ward.    (Jean  signals  again.) 

Lawson.  I  dinna  like  that  singin'  at  siccan  a  time  o* 
the  nicht. 

Brodie.  I  must  go. 

Lawson.  Not  one  foot  o'  ye.  I'm  ower  glad  to  find 
ye  in  guid  hands.     Ay,  ye  dinna  ken  how  glad. 

Brodie  {aside  to  Leslie).  Get  me  out  of  this.  There's 
a  man  there  will  stick  at  nothing. 

Leslie.  Mr.  Lawson,  Brodie  has  done  his  shift. 
Why  should  we  keep  him  ?  (Jean  appears  at  the 
door,  and  signs  to  Brodie.) 

Lawson.  Hoots!  this  is  my  trade.  That's  a  bit  o* 
"  Wanderin'  Willie."  I've  had  it  before  me  in  precog- 
nitions; the  same  stave  has  been  used  for  a  signal  by 
some  o*  the  very  warst  o'  them. 

Brodie  {aside  to  Leslie.)  Get  me  out  of  this.  I'll 
never  forget  to-night.     (Jean  at  door  again.) 

Leslie.  Well,  good-night,  Brodie.  When  shall  we 
meet  again  ? 

Lawson.  Not  one  foot  o'  him.     (Jean  at  door.)    I 

tell  you,  Mr.  Leslie 

a48 


DEACON  BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

SCENE  VI 
To  these,  Jean 

Jean  {from  the  door).  Wullie,  Wullie! 

Lawson.  Guid  guide  us,  Mrs.  Watt!  A  dacent 
wumman  like  yoursel'!  Whatten  a  time  o'  nicht  is 
this  to  come  to  folks'  door  ? 

Jean  (to  Brodie).  Hawks,  Wullie,  hawks! 

Brodie.  I  suppose  you  know  what  you've  done, 
Jean? 

Jean.  I  had  to  come,  Wullie,  he  wadna  wait  another 
minit.     He  wad  have  come  himsel'. 

Brodie.  This  is  my  mistress. 

Lawson.  William,  dinna  tell  me  nae  mair. 

Brodie.  I  have  told  you  so  much.  You  may  as  well 
know  alL  That  good  man  knows  it  already.  Have 
you  issued  a  warrant  for  me  ...  .  yet  ? 

Lawson.  No,  no,  man :  not  another  word. 

Brodie  {pointing  to  the  window).  That  is  my  work. 
I  am  the  man.     Have  you  drawn  the  warrant  ? 

Lawson  {breaking  down).     Your  father's  son ! 

Leslie  {to  Lawson).  My  good  friend!  Brodie,  you 
^ight  have  spared  the  old  man  this. 

Brodie.  I  might  have  spared  him  years  ago;  and  you 
-and  my  sister,  and  myself.  I  might  .  .  .  would  God 
I  had!  {Weeping  himself.)  Don't  weep,  my  good  old 
friend;  I  was  lost  long  since;  don't  think  of  me;  don't 
pity  me;  don't  shame  me  with  your  pity!  I  began  this 
when  I  was  a  boy.  I  bound  the  millstone  round  my 
neck;  [it  is  irrevocable  now,]  and  you  must  all  suffei 

349 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

.  .  .  all  suffer  for  me!  .  .  .  [for  this  suffering  remnant 
of  what  was  once  a  man].  O  God,  that  I  can  have 
fallen  to  stand  here  as  I  do  now.  My  friend  lying  to 
save  me  from  the  gallows;  my  second  father  weeping 
tears  of  blood  for  my  disgrace!  And  all  for  what?  By 
what?  Because  I  had  an  open  hand,  because  I  was  a 
selfish  dog,  because  I  loved  this  woman. 

Jean.  O  Wullie,  and  she  lo'ed  ye  weel!  But  come 
near  me  nae  mair,  come  near  me  nae  mair,  my  man; 
keep  wi'  your  ain  folks  .  .  .  your  ain  dacent  folks. 

Lawson.  Mistress  Watt,  ye  shall  sit  rent  free  as  lang's 
there's  breath  in  William  Lawson's  body. 

Leslie.  You  can  do  one  thing  still  ...  for  Mary's 
sake.     You  can  save  yourself;  you  must  fly. 

Brodie.  It  is  my  purpose;  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
It  cannot  be  before.  Then  I  will  fly;  and  O,  as  God 
sees  me,  I  will  strive  to  make  a  new  and  a  better  life, 
and  to  be  worthy  of  your  friendship,  and  of  your  tears 
.  .  .  your  tears.  And  to  be  worthy  of  you  too,  Jean; 
for  I  see  now  that  the  bandage  has  fallen  from  my  eyes ; 
I  see  myself,  O  how  unworthy  even  of  you. 

Leslie.  Why  not  to-night  ? 

Brodie.  It  cannot  be  before.  There  are  many  con- 
siderations.    I  must  find  money. 

Jean.  Leave  me,  and  the  wean.  Dinna  fash  yoursel' 
for  us. 

Leslie  {opening  the  strong-box,  and  pouring  gold  upon 
the  table).    Take  this  and  go  at  once. 

Brodie.  Not  that  .  .  .  not  the  money  that  I  came  to 
steal ! 

Lawson.  Tak*  it,  William ;  I'll  pay  him. 

Brodie.  It  is  in  vain.  I  cannot  leave  till  I  have  said. 
250 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

There  is  a  man;  I  must  obey  him.  If  I  slip  my  chain 
till  he  has  done  with  me,  the  hue  and  cry  will  blaze 
about  the  country;  every  outport  will  be  shut;  I  shall 
return  to  the  gallows.  He  is  a  man  that  will  stick  at 
nothing. 

SCENE  VII 

To  these,  Moore 

MooRE.  Are  you  coming  ? 
Brodie.  I  am  coming. 

Moore  {appearing  in  the  door).     Do  you  want  us  all 
to  get  thundering  well  scragged? 
Brodie  {going).    There  is  my  master. 

Act-Drop 


«5« 


ACT  IV 


TABLEAU  VII 
The  Robbery 

The  Stage  represents  the  outside  of  the  Excise  Office  in  Chessel's 
Court.  At  the  hack,  L.  C,  an  archway  opening  on  the  High  Street. 
The  door  of  the  Excise  in  wing,  R.  ;  the  opposite  side  of  the  stage  is 
lumbered  with  barrels,  packing-cases,  etc.  Moonlight ;  the  Excise 
Office  casts  a  shadow  over  half  the  stage.  A  clock  strikes  the  hour, 
A  round  of  the  City  Guard,  with  halberts,  lanterns,  etc.,  enters  and 
goes  out  again  by  the  arch,  after  having  examined  the  fastenings  of 
the  great  door  and  the  lumber  on  the  left.  Cry  without  in  the 
High  Street :  "  Ten  by  the  bell,  and  a  fine  clear  night."  Then  enter 
cautiously  by  the  arch,  Smith  and  Moore^  with  AmsLiB  loaded 
with  tools. 

SCENE   I 
Smith,  Moore,  Ainslie 

Smith  {entering  first).     Come  on.     Coast  deaf. 

Moore  {after  they  have  come  to  the  front).  Ain't  he 
turned  up  yet? 

Smith  {to  Ainslie).  Now  Maggot  I  The  fishing's 
a  going  to  begin. 

Ainslie.  Dinna  cangle,  Geordie.  My  back's  fair 
broke. 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Moore.  O  muck!     Hand  out  them  pieces. 

Smith.  All  right,  Humptious!  (To  Awsue.)  You're 
a  nice  old  sort  for  a  rag-and-bone  man:  can't  hold  a 
bag  open!  {Taking  out  tools.)  Here  they  was. 
Here  are  the  bunchums,  one  and  two;  and  jolly  old 
keys  was  they.  Here's  the  picklocks,  crowbars,  and 
here's  Lord  George's  pet  bull's  eye,  his  old  and  valued 
friend,  the  Cracksman's  treasure! 

Moore.  Just  like  you.     Forgot  the  rotten  centrebit. 

Smith.  That's  all  you  know.  Here  she  is,  bless  her  I 
Portrait  of  George  as  a  gay  hironmonger. 

Moore.  O  rot!  Hand  it  over,  and  keep  yourself  out 
of  that  there  thundering  moonlight. 

Smith  {lighting  lantern).  All  right,  old  mumble-peg. 
Don't  you  get  carried  away  by  the  fire  of  old  Rome. 
That's  your  motto.  Here  are  the  tools;  a  perfect  pic- 
ter  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful;  and  all  1  hope  is, 
that  our  friend  and  pitcher,  the  Deakin,  will  make  a 
better  job  of  it  than  he  did  last  night.  If  he  don't,  I 
shall  retire  from  the  business  —  that's  all;  and  it'll  be 
George  and  his  little  wife  and  a  black  footman  till  death 
do  us  part. 

Moore.  O  muck!  You're  all  jaw  like  a  sheep's 
jimmy.  That's  my  opinion  of  you.  When  did  you 
see  him  last } 

Smith.  This  morning;  and  he  looked  as  if  he  was 
rehearsing  for  his  own  epitaph.  1  never  see  such  a 
change  in  a  man.  I  gave  him  the  office  for  to-night; 
and  was  he  grateful  ?  Did  he  weep  upon  my  faithful 
bosom  ?  No;  he  smiled  upon  me  like  a  portrait  of  the 
dear  departed.  I  see  his  'art  was  far  away;  and  it 
broke  my  own  to  look  at  him. 

253 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Moore.  Muck  I  Wot  I  ses  is,  if  a  cove's  got  that 
mucii  of  the  nob  about  him,  wot's  the  good  of  his 
working  single-handed?  That's  wot's  the  matter 
with  him. 

Smith.  Well,  old  Father  Christmas,  he  ain't  single- 
handed  to-night,  is  he  ? 

Moore.  No,  he  ain't;  he's  got  a  man  with  him  to- 
night. 

Smith.  Pardon  me,  Romeo;  two  men,  I  think? 

Moore.  A  man  wot  means  business.  If  I'd  a'bin 
with  him  last  night,  it  ain't  psalm-singin'  would  have 
got  us  off.  Psalm-singin'?  Muck!  Let  *em  try  it  on 
with  me. 

Ainslie.  Losh  me,  I  heard  a  noise.  (Alarm;  they 
crouch  into  the  shadow  and  listen.) 

Smith.  All  serene.  ( To  Ainslie.  )  Am  I  to  cut  that 
liver  out  of  you?  Now,  am  I?  {A  whistle,)  'St! 
here  we  are.  {Whistles  a  modulation,  which  is  an- 
swered,) 

SCENE   II 
To  these  Brodie 

Moore.  Waiting  for  you.  Deacon. 

Brodie.  I  see.     Everything  ready  ? 

Smith.  All  a-growing  and  a-blowing. 

Brodie.  Give  me  the  light.  {Briefly  examines  tools 
and  door  with  bull's  eye.)  You,  George,  stand  by, 
and  hand  up  the  pieces.  Ainslie,  take  the  glim.  Moore, 
out  and  watch. 

Moore.  I  didn't  come  here  to  do  sentry-go,  I  didn't. 

Brodie.  You  came  here  to  do  as  I  tell  you.  (Moorb 
254 


DEACON    BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

goes  Up  slowly.)  Second  bunch,  George.  I  know  the 
lock.  Steady  with  the  glim.  {At  work.)  No  good. 
Give  me  the  centrebit. 

Smith.  Right.  {Work  continues.  Ainslie  drops 
lantern.) 

Brodie.  Curse  you !  ( Throttling  and  kicking  him. ) 
You  shake,  and  you  shake,  and  you  can't  even  hold  a 
light  for  your  betters.     Hey  } 

Ainslie.  Eh  Deacon,  Deacon  .  .  . 

Smith.  Now  Ghost!    (With  lantern,) 

Brodie.  'St,  Moore! 

MooRE.  Wot's  the  row  ? 

Brodie.  Take  you  the  light. 

Moore  {to  Ainslie).  Wo'  j'  yer  shakin*  at  ?  {Kicks 
him. ) 

Brodie  (/o  Ainslie).  Go  you,  and  see  if  you're  good 
at  keeping  watch.  Inside  the  arch.  And  if  you  let  a 
footfall  pass,  I'll  break  your  back.  (Ainslie  retires.) 
Steady  with  the  light.  (At  work  with  centrebit.)  Hand 
up  number  four,  George.  (At  work  with  picklock.) 
That  has  it. 

Smith.  Well  done,  our  side. 

Brodie.  Now  the  crowbar!  (At  work.)  That's  it. 
Put  down  the  glim,  Badger,  and  help  at  the  wrench. 
Your  whole  weight,  men!  Put  your  backs  to  it! 
{While  they  work  at  the  bar,  Brodie  stands  by,  dusting 
his  hands  with  a  pocket-handkerchief.  As  the  door 
opens.)     Voilci!    In  with  you. 

Moore  (entering  with  light).  Mucking  fine  work  too, 
Deacon! 

Brodie.  Take  up  the  irons,  George! 

Smith.  How  about  the  P(h)antom  ? 

2^^  -  • 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Brodie.  Leave  him  to  me.     I'll  give  him  a  look. 
(Enters  office.) 
Smith  (following),  Houp-1^! 

SCENE  III 

Ainslie;   afterwards   Brodie;    afterwards   Hunt  and 
Officers. 

Ainslie.  Ca*  ye  that  mainners  ?  Ye're  grand  gentry 
by  your  way  o't!  Eh,  sirs,  my  hench!  Ay,  that  was 
the  Badger.  Man,  but  ye'll  look  bonnie  hangin' !  (A 
faint  whistle.)  Lord's  sake,  what's  thon  ?  Ay,  it'll 
be  Hunt  an'  his  lads.  (Whistle  repeated.)  Losh  me, 
what  gars  him  whustle,  whustle  }  Does  he  think  me 
deaf?  (Goes  up.  Brodie  enters  from  office,  stands  an 
instant,  and  sees  him  making  a  signal  through  the  arch.) 

Brodie.  Rats!  Rats!  (Hides  L.  among  lumber.  En- 
ter noiselessly  through  arch  Hunt  and  Officers.) 

Hunt.  Birds  caught  ? 

Ainslie.  They're  a'  ben  the  house,  mister. 

Hunt.  All  three  ? 

Ainslie.  The  hale  set,  mister. 

Brodie.  Liar! 

Hunt.  Mum,  lads,  and  follow  me.  (Exit,  with  bis  men, 
into  office.     Brodie  seen  with  dagger.) 

Hunt.  In  the  King's  name!   ^ 

Moore.  Muck!  I    ,„,.., .    ^ 

Smith.  Go  it,  Badger.  \  (^^^^^«-) 

Hunt.  Take  'em  alive,  boys!  J 

Ainslie.  Eh,  but  that's  awfu*.  (The  Deacon  leaps  out 
and  stabs  him.     He  falls  without  a  cry.) 

Brodie.  Saved !   (He  goes  out  by  the  arch.) 
256 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

SCENE  IV 

Hunt  and  Officers;  with  Smith  and  Moore  handcuffed. 
Signs  of  a  severe  struggle 

Hunt  {entering.)  Bring  'em  along,  lads!  (Looking 
at  prisoners  with  lantern.)  Pleased  to  see  you  again, 
Badger.  And  you  too,  George.  But  I'd  rather  have 
seen  your  principal.     Where's  he  got  to  ? 

MooRE.  To  hell,  I  hope. 

Hunt.  Always  the  same  pretty  flow  of  language,  I 
see.  Hump.  {Looking  at  burglary  with  lantern.)  A 
very  tidy  piece  of  work,  Dook ;  very  tidy !  Much  too 
good  for  you.  Smacks  of  a  fine  tradesman.  It  was  the 
Deacon,  I  suppose  ? 

Smith.  You  ought  to  know  G.  S.  better  by  this  time, 
Jerry. 

Hunt.  All  right,  your  Grace :  we'll  talk  it  over  with 
the  Deacon  himself  Where's  the  jackal  ?  Here,  you, 
Ainslie!  Where  are  you  ?  By  jingo,  I  thought  as  much. 
Stabbed  to  the  heart  and  dead  as  a  herring! 

Smith.  Bravo! 

Hunt.  More  of  the  Deacon's  work,  I  guess  ?  Does 
him  credit  too,  don't  it,  Badger  ? 

MooRE.  Muck.  Was  that  the  thundering  cove  that 
peached  ? 

Hunt.  That  was  the  thundering  cove. 

MooRE.  And  is  he  corpsed  } 

Hunt.  I  should  just  about  reckon  he  was. 

MooRE.  Then,  damme,  I  don't  mind  swinging! 

Hunt.  We'll  talk  about  that  presently.  M'Intyre  and 
Stewart,  you  get  a  stretcher,  and  take  that  rubbish  to 

357 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

the  office.  Pick  it  up;  it's  only  a  dead  informer.  Hand 
tiiese  two  gentlemen  over  to  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal, 
with  Mr.  Jerry  Hunt's  compliments.  Johnstone  and 
Syme,  you  come  along  with  me.  I'll  bring  the  Deacon 
round  myself. 

Act-Drop 


afS 


ACT  V 

TABLEAU  VIII 
The  Open  Door 

The  Stage  represents  the  Deacon's  room,  as  in  Tableau  I.  Fire  light. 
Stage  dark.  A  pause.  Then  knocking  at  the  door,  C.  Cries 
without  o/**  Willie!  "  "  Mr.  Brodie!"     The  door  is  burst  open. 

SCENE  I 
Doctor,  Mary,  a  Maidservant  with  lights 

Doctor.  The  apartment  is  unoccupied. 

Mary.  Dead,  and  he  not  here! 

Doctor.  The  bed  has  not  been  slept  in.     The  coun- 
terpane is  not  turned  down. 

Mary.  It  is  not  true ;  it  cannot  be  true. 

Doctor.  My  dear  young  lady,  you  must  have  mis- 
understood your  brother's  language. 

Mary.  O  no ;  that  I  did  not.     That  1  am  sure  I  did 
not. 

Doctor   {looking  at  door).      The  strange  thing  is 
....  the  bolt. 

Servant.  It's  unco  strange. 

Doctor.  Well,  we  have  acted  for  the  best. 

Servant.  Sir,  I  dinna  think  this  should  gang  nae 
further. 

359 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Doctor.  The  secret  is  in  our  keeping.  Affliction  is 
enough  without  scandal. 

Mary.  Kind  heaven,  what  does  it  mean  ? 

Doctor.  I  think  there  is  no  more  to  be  done. 

Mary.  I  am  here  alone,  Doctor;  you  pass  my  uncle's 
door? 

Doctor.  The  Procurator-Fiscal  ?  I  shall  make  it  my 
devoir.     Expect  him  soon.    (Goes  out  with  Maid.) 

Mary  {hastily  searches  the  room).  No,  he  is  not  there. 
She  was  right !  O  father,  you  can  never  know,  praise 
God! 


SCENE  II 
Mary,  to  whom  Jean  and  afterwards  Leslie 

Jean  {at  door).    Mistress  ....  I 

Mary.  Ah !   Who  is  there  ?  Who  are  you  ? 

Jean.  Is  he  no  hame  yet  ?  I'm  aye  waitin'  on  him. 

Mary.  Waiting  for  him  ?  Do  you  know  the  Deacon  ? 
You? 

Jean.  I  maun  see  him.    Eh,  lassie,  it's  life  and  death. 

Mary.  Death  ...  O  my  heart! 

Jean.  I  maun  see  him,  bonnie  leddie.  I'm  a  puir 
body,  and  no  fit  to  be  seen  speakin'  wi'  the  likes  o* 
you.  But  O  lass,  ye  are  the  Deacon's  sister,  and  ye 
hae  the  Deacon's  e'en,  and  for  the  love  of  the  dear  kind 
Lord,  let's  in  and  hae  a  word  wi'  him  ere  it  be  ower 
late.     I'm  bringin'  siller. 

Mary.  Siller  ?  You  ?  For  him  ?  O  father,  father, 
if  you  could  hear!  What  are  you?  What  are  you 
•  .  .  to  him  ? 

a6o 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

Jean.  I'll  be  the  best  frien'  'at  ever  he  had;  for,  O 
dear  leddie,  I  wad  gie  my  bluid  to  help  him. 

Mary.  And  the  ...  .  the  child  ? 

Jean.  The  bairn  ? 

Mary.  Nothing!  O  nothing!  I  am  in  trouble,  and 
I  know  not  what  I  say.  And  I  cannot  help  you;  I  can- 
not help  you  if  I  would.  He  is  not  here;  and  I  believed 
he  was;  and  ill  .  .  .  ill;  and  he  is  not  —  he  is  ...  . 
O,  I  think  I  shall  lose  my  mind! 

Jean.  Ay,  it's  unco  business. 

Mary.  His  father  is  dead  within  there  .  .  .  dead,  I 
tell  you  .  .  .  dead ! 

Jean.  It's  mebbe  just  as  weel. 

Mary.  Well?  Well?  Has  it  come  to  this?  O 
Walter,  Walter!  come  back  to  me,  or  I  shall  die.  (Leslie 
enters,  C.) 

Leslie.  Mary,  Mary!  I  hoped  to  have  spared  you 
this.     (To  Jean.)    What  —  you?    Is  he  not  here? 

Jean.  I'm  aye  waitin'  on  him. 

Leslie.  What  has  become  of  him  ?  Is  he  mad  ? 
Where  is  he  ? 

Jean.  The  Lord  A'michty  kens,  Mr.  Leslie.  But  I 
maun  find  him;  I  maun  find  him. 


SCENE  III 
Mary,  Leslie 

Mary.  O  Walter,  Walter!    What  does  it  mean  ? 

Leslie.  You  have  been  a  brave  girl  all  your  life,  Mary; 
you  must  lean  on  me  .  .  .  you  must  trust  in  me  .  •  . 
and  be  a  brave  girl  till  the  end. 

261 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

Mary.  Who  is  she  ?  What  does  she  want  with  him  ? 
And  he  .  .  .  where  is  he  ?  Do  you  know  that  my 
father  is  dead,  and  the  Deacon  not  here  ?  Where  has 
he  gone  ?  He  may  be  dead,  too.  Father,  brother  .  .  . 
O  God,  it  is  more  than  I  can  bear! 

Leslie.  Mary,  my  dear,  dear  girl  .  .  .  when  will  you 
be  my  wife  ? 

Mary.  O,  do  not  speak  .  .  .  not  speak  ...  of  it 
to-night.     Not  to-night!    O  not  to-night! 

Leslie.  I  know,  I  know,  dear  heart!  And  do  you 
think  that  I  whom  you  have  chosen,  I  whose  whole  life 
is  in  your  love  —  do  you  think  that  I  would  press  you 
now  if  there  were  not  good  cause  ? 

Mary.  Good  cause!  Something  has  happened. 
Something  has  happened  ....  to  him!  Walter  .  .  .  ! 
Is  he  ...  .  dead } 

Leslie.  There  are  worse  things  in  the  world  than 
death.     There  is  ....  O  Mary,  he  is  your  brother! 

Mary.  What?  ....  Dishonour!  ....  The  Deacon! 
.  .  .  .  My  God! 

Leslie.  My  wife,  my  wife! 

Mary.  No,  no!  Keep  away  from  me.  Don't  touch 
me.  I'm  not  fit  .  .  .  not  fit  to  be  near  you.  What 
has  he  done  ?  I  am  his  sister.  Tell  me  the  worst.  Tell 
me  the  worst  at  once. 

Leslie.  That,  if  God  wills,  dear,  that  you  shall  never 
know.  Whatever  it  be,  think  that  I  knew  it  all,  and 
only  loved  you  better;  think  that  your  true  husband  is 
with  you,  and  you  are  not  to  bear  it  alone. 

Mary.  My  husband  ?  .  .  .  Never. 

Leslie.  Mary  .  .  .  ! 

Mary.  You  forget,  you  forget  what  I  am.  I  am  his 
sister.     I  owe  him  a  lifetime  of  happiness  and  love;  I 

262 


DEACON   BRODIE   OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

owe  him  even  you.  And  whatever  his  fault,  however 
ruinous  his  disgrace,  he  is  my  brother — my  own  bro- 
ther—  and  my  place  is  still  with  him. 

Leslie.  Your  place  is  with  me  —  is  with  your  hus- 
band. With  me,  with  me;  and  for  his  sake  most  of 
all.  What  can  you  do  for  him  alone?  how  can  you 
help  him  alone  .^  It  wrings  my  heart  to  think  how 
little.  But  together  is  different.  Together  ....  I 
Join  my  strength,  my  will,  my  courage  to  your  own, 
and  together  we  may  save  him. 

Mary.  All  that  is  over.  Once  I  was  blessed  among 
women.  I  was  my  father's  daughter,  my  brother  loved 
me,  I  lived  to  be  your  wife.  Now  .  .  .  .  !  My  fa- 
ther is  dead,  my  brother  is  shamed;  and  you  .... 
O  how  could  I  face  the  world,  how  could  I  endure  my- 
self, if  I  preferred  my  happiness  to  your  honour? 

Leslie.  What  is  my  honour  but  your  happiness  ?  In 
what  else  does  it  consist?  Is  it  in  denying  me  my 
heart?  is  it  in  visiting  another's  sin  upon  the  innocent? 
Could  I  do  that,  and  be  my  mother's  son  ?  Could  I  do 
that,  and  bear  my  father's  name  ?  Could  I  do  that,  and 
have  ever  been  found  worthy  of  you  ? 

Mary.  It  is  my  duty  ...  my  duty.  Why  will  you 
make  it  so  hard  for  me  ?    So  hard,  Walter,  so  hard! 

Leslie.  Do  I  pursue  you  only  for  your  good  fortune, 
your  beauty,  the  credit  of  your  friends,  your  family's 
good  name  ?  That  were  not  love,  and  I  love  you.  I 
love  you,  dearest,  I  love  you.  Friend,  father,  brother, 
husband  ...  I  must  be  all  these  to  you.  I  am  a  man 
who  can  love  well. 

Mary.  Silence  ...  in  pity !  I  cannot .  .  .  O,  I  can- 
not bear  it. 

Leslie.  And  say  it  was  I  who  had  fallen.  Say  I  had 
26^ 


DEACON    BRODIE   OR   THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

played  my  neck  and  lost  it  .  .  .  that  I  were  pushed 
by  the  law  to  the  last  limits  of  ignominy  and  despair. 
Whose  love  would  sanctify  my  jail  to  me  ?  whose  pity 
would  shine  upon  me  in  the  dock  ?  whose  prayers 
would  accompany  me  to  the  gallows  ?  Whose  but 
yours?  Yours!  .  .  .  And  you  would  entreat  me  — 
me!  —  to  do  what  you  shrink  from  even  in  thought, 
what  you  would  die  ere  you  attempted  in  deed! 

Mary.  Walter  ...  on  my  knees  ...  no  more,  no 
more! 

Leslie.  My  wife!  my  wife!  Here  on  my  heart!  It 
is  I  that  must  kneel  ...  I  that  must  kneel  to  you. 

Mary.  Dearest!  .  .  .  Husband!  You  forgive  him? 
O,  you  forgive  him  ? 

Leslie.  He  is  my  brother  now.  Let  me  take  you  to 
our  father.     Come. 

SCENE  IV 

After  a  pause,  Brodie,  through  the  window 

Brodie.  Saved!  And  the  alibi!  Man,  but  you've 
been  near  it  this  time—  near  the  rope,  near  the  rope. 
Ah  boy,  it  was  your  neck,  your  neck  you  fought  for. 
They  were  closing  hell-doors  upon  me,  swift  as  the 
wind,  when  I  slipped  through  and  shot  for  heaven! 
Saved!  The  dog  that  sold  me,  I  settled  him;  and  the 
other  dogs  are  staunch.  Man,  but  your  alibi  will 
stand!  Is  the  window  fast?  The  neighbours  must 
not  see  the  Deacon,  the  poor,  sick  Deacon,  up  and 
stirring  at  this  time  o'  night.  Ay,  the  good  old  room 
in  the  good,  cozy  old  house  .  .  .  and  the  rat  a  dead 
rat,  and  all  saved.     {He  lights  the  candles,)    Your 

264 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

hand  shakes,  sir?  Fie!  And  you  saved,  and  you 
snug  and  sick  in  your  bed,  and  //  but  a  dead  rat  after 
all  ?  {He  takes  off  his  hanger  and  lays  it  on  the  table,) 
Ay,  it  was  a  near  touch.  Will  it  come  to  the  dock  ? 
If  it  does!  You've  a  tongue,  and  you've  a  head,  and 
you've  an  alibi;  and  your  alibi  will  stand.  {He  takes 
off  his  coat,  takes  out  the  dagger y  and  with  a  gesture 
of  striking.)  Home!  He  fell  without  a  sob.  "He 
breaketh  them  against  the  bosses  of  his  buckler!'* 
{Lays  the  dagger  on  the  table.)  Your  alibi  ...  ah 
Deacon,  that's  your  life!  .  .  .  your  alibi,  your  alibi. 
{He  takes  up  a  candle  and  turns  towards  the  door.) 
O!  .  .  .  .  Open,  open,  open!  Judgment  of  God,  the 
door  is  open  1 

SCENE  V 

Brodie,  Mary. 

Brodie.  Did  you  open  the  door  ? 

Mary.  I  did. 

Brodie.  You  ....  you  opened  the  door  ? 

Mary.  I  did  open  it. 

Brodie.  Were  you  .  .  .  alone  ? 

Mary.  I  was  not.  The  servant  was  with  me;  and 
the  doctor. 

Brodie.  O  ...  the  servant  .  .  .  and  the  doctor. 
Very  true.  Then  it's  all  over  town  by  now.  The 
servant  and  the  doctor.  The  doctor  ?  What  doctor  ? 
Why  the  doctor  ? 

Mary.  My  father  is  dead.  O  Will,  where  have  you 
been? 

Brodie.  Your  father  is  dead.  O  yes!  He's  dead,  is 
265 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

he  ?  Dead.  Quite  right.  Quite  right.  .  .  .  How  did 
you  open  the  door  ?    It's  strange.     I  bolted  it. 

Mary.  We  could  not  help  it,  Will,  now  could  we  ? 
The  doctor  forced  it.     He  had  to,  had  he  not  ? 

Brodie.  The  doctor  forced  it?  The  doctor?  Was 
he  here  ?    He  forced  it  ?    He  ? 

Mary.  We  did  it  for  the  best;  it  was  I  who  did  it 
.  .  .  I,  your  own  sister.  And  O  Will,  my  Willie, 
where  have  you  been  ?  You  have  not  been  in  any 
harm,  any  danger? 

Brodie.  Danger?  O  my  young  lady,  you  have 
taken  care  of  that.  It's  not  danger  now,  it's  death. 
Death?  Ah!  Death!  Death!  Death!  {Clutching the 
table.  Then,  recovering  as  from  a  dream.)  Death  ? 
Did  you  say  my  father- was  dead  ?  My  father  ?  O  my 
God,  my  poor  old  father!  Is  he  dead,  Mary  ?  Have  I 
lost  him  ?  is  he  gone  ?  O,  Mary  dear,  and  to  think  of 
where  his  son  was! 

Mary.  Dearest,  he  is  in  heaven. 

Brodie.  Did  he  suffer  ? 

Mary.  He  died  like  a  child.  Your  name  ...  it 
was  his  last. 

Brodie.  My  name  ?  Mine  ?  O  Mary,  if  he  had 
known !  He  knows  now.  He  knows ;  he  sees  us  now 
.  .  .  sees  me!     Ay,  and  sees  you,  left  how  lonely! 

Mary.  Not  so,  dear;  not  while  you  live.  Wherever 
you  are,  I  shall  not  be  alone,  so  you  live. 

Brodie.  While  I  live  ?  I  ?  The  old  house  is  ruined, 
and  the  old  master  dead,  and  I!  .  .  .  O  Mary,  try  and 
believe  I  did  not  mean  that  it  should  come  to  this;  try 
and  believe  that  I  was  only  weak  at  first.  At  first  ? 
And  now!    The  good  old  man  dead,  the  kind  sister 

266 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE  LIFE 

ruined,  the  innocent  boy  fallen,  fallen  .  .  . !  You  will 
be  quite  alone;  all  your  old  friends,  all  the  old  faces, 
gone  into  darkness.  The  night  {with  a  gesture)  .  .  . 
it  waits  for  me.     You  will  be  quite  alone. 

Mary.  The  night! 

Brodie.  Mary,  you  must  hear.  How  am  I  to  tell 
her,  and  the  old  man  just  dead !  Mary,  I  was  the  boy 
you  knew;  I  loved  pleasure,  I  was  weak;  I  have  fallen 
.  .  .  low  .  .  .  lower  than  you  think.  A  beginning 
is  so  small  a  thing!  I  never  dreamed  it  would  come  to 
this  ....  this  hideous  last  night. 

Mary.  Willie,  you  must  tell  me,  dear.  I  must  have 
the  truth  ...  the  kind  truth  ...  at  once  ...  in  pity. 

Brodie.  Crime.     I  have  fallen.     Crime. 

Mary.  Crime? 

Brodie.  Don't  shrink  from  me.  Miserable  dog  that 
1  am,  selfish  hound  that  has  dragged  you  to  this  misery 
.  .  .  you  and  all  that  loved  him  .  .  .  think  only  of  my 
torments,  think  only  of  my  penitence,  don't  shrink 
from  me. 

Mary.  I  do  not  care  to  hear,  I  do  not  wish,  I  do  not 
mind ;  you  are  my  brother.  What  do  I  care  ?  How 
can  1  help  you  ? 

Brodie.  Help  ?  help  me  ?  You  would  not  speak  of 
it,  not  wish  it,  if  you  knew.  My  kind  good  sister,  my 
little  playmate,  my  sweet  friend!  Was  I  ever  unkind 
to  you  till  yesterday  ?  Not  openly  unkind  ?  you'll  say 
that  when  1  am  gone. 

Mary.  If  you  have  done  wrong,  what  do  I  care  ?  If 
you  have  failed,  does  it  change  my  twenty  years  of  love 
and  worship  ?    Never! 

Brodie.  Yet  1  must  make  her  understand  .  .  .  .  ! 
267 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE  DOUBLE  LIFE 

Mary.  I  am  your  true  sister,  dear.  I  cannot  fail,  I 
will  never  leave  you,  I  will  never  blame  you.  Come! 
(Goes  to  embrace.) 

Brodie  {recoiling).  No,  don't  touch  me,  not  a  finger, 
not  that,  anything  but  that! 

Mary.  Willie,  Willie! 

Brodie  {taking  the  bloody  dagger  from  the  table).  See, 
do  you  understand  that  ? 

Mary.  Ah  I   What,  what  is  it! 

Brodie.  Blood.     I  have  killed  a  man. 

Mary.  You?  .... 

Brodie.  I  am  a  murderer;  I  was  a  thief  before.  Your 
brother ...  the  old  man's  only  son  I 

Mary.  Walter,  Walter,  come  to  me! 

Brodie.  Now  you  see  that  I  must  die ;  now  you  see  that 
I  stand  upon  the  grave's  tdgtj  all  my  lost  life  behind  me, 
like  a  horror  to  think  upon,  like  a  frenzy,  like  a  dream 
that  is  past.  And  you,  you  are  alone.  Father,  brother, 
they  are  gone  from  you;  one  to  heaven,  one  .  .  .  .  ! 

Mary.  Hush,  dear,  hush!  Kneel,  pray;  it  is  not  too 
late  to  repent.  Think  of  our  father,  dear;  repent.  {She 
weeps,  straining  to  his  bosom.)  O  Willie,  my  darling 
boy,  repent  and  join  us. 

SCENE  VI 
To  these,  Lawson,  Lesue,  Jean 

Lawson.  She  kens  a*,  thank  the  guid  Lord! 

Brodie  {to  Mary).  I  know  you  forgive  me  now;  I 
ask  no  more.  That  is  a  good  man.  (To  Leslie.)  Will 
you  take  her  from  my  hands?  (Leslie  takes  Mary.) 
Jean,  are  ye  here  to  see  the  end  ? 

268 


DEACON   BRODIE  OR  THE   DOUBLE   LIFE 

Jean.  Eh  man,  can  ye  no  fly  ?  Could  ye  no  say  that 
it  was  me  ? 

Brodie.  No,  Jean,  this  is  where  it  ends.  Uncle,  this 
is  where  it  ends.  And  to  think  that  not  an  hour  ago  I 
still  had  hopes!  Hopes!  Ay,  not  an  hour  ago  I  thought 
of  a  new  life.  You  were  not  forgotten,  Jean.  Leslie, 
you  must  try  to  forgive  me  .  .  .  you,  too! 

Leslie.  You  are  her  brother. 

Brodie  (to  Lawson).    And  you  ? 

Lawson.  My  name-child  and  my  sister's  bairn! 

Brodie.  You  won't  forget  Jean,  will  you  ?  nor  the 
child  ? 

Lawson.  That  I  will  not. 

Mary.  O  Willie,  nor  I. 

SCENE  VII 
To  these,  Hunt 

Hunt.  The  game's  up,  Deacon.  I'll  trouble  you  to 
come  along  with  me. 

Brodie  {behind  the  table).  One  moment,  officer:  I 
have  a  word  to  say  before  witnesses  ere  I  go.  In  all 
this  there  is  but  one  man  guilty;  and  that  man  is  I. 
None  else  has  sinned;  none  else  must  suffer.  This 
poor  woman  (pointing  to  Jean)  I  have  used;  she  never 
understood.  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  that  is  my  dying 
confession.  {He  snatches  his  hanger  from  the  table,  and 
rushes  upon  Hunt,  who  parries,  and  runs  him  through. 
He  reels  across  the  stage  and  falls.)  The  new  life  .  .  . 
the  new  life !    {He  dies. ) 

Curtain. 
269 


BEAU  AUSTIN 


2)eMcateJ> 

WITH   ADMIRATION   AND   RESPECT 
TO 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 


Bournemouth, 
1st  October,  1884 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


George  Frederick  Austin,  called  *  Beau  Austin/      .    ,    .  /Etat.  50 

John  Fenwick,  of  Allonby  Shaw, ,    ,  "       26 

Anthony  Musgrave,  Cornet  in  the  Prince's  Own,    ...  "       21 

Menteith,  the  Beau's  Valet, **       55 

A  Royal  Duke.     (Dumb  Show.) 

Dorothy  Musgrave,  Anthony's  Sister, "       25 

Miss  Evelina  Foster,  her  Aunt "       45 

Barbara  Ridley,  her  Maid, "       20 

Visitors  to  the  Wells. 

The  Time  is  1820.    The  Scene  is  laid  at  Tunbridge  Wells, 
The  Action  occupies  a  space  of  ten  hours. 


HAYMARKET  THEATRE 
Monday,  November  ^d,  1890 

CAST 

George  Frederick  Austin, Mr.  Tree. 

John  Fenwick, Mr.  Fred.  Terry. 

Anthony  Musgrave, Mr.  Edmund  Maurice. 

Menteith, Mr.  Brookfield. 

A  Royal  Duke, Mr.  Robb  Harwood. 

Dorothy  Musgrave, Mrs.  Tree. 

Miss  Evelina  Foster, Miss  Rose  Leclercq. 

Barbara  Ridley Miss  Aylward. 

Visitors  to  the  Wells. 


PROLOGUE 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Tree  in  the  character  of 
Beau  Amtin 

**To  all  and  singular,"  as  Dryden  says, 

We  bring  a  fancy  of  those  Georgian  days. 

Whose  style  still  breathed  a  faint  and  fine  perfume 

Of  old-world  courtliness  and  old-world  bloom: 

When  speech  was  elegant  and  talk  was  fit, 

For  slang  had  not  been  canonised  as  wit; 

When  manners  reigned,  when  breeding  had  the  wall. 

And  Women  —  yes!  —  were  ladies  first  of  all; 

When  Grace  was  conscious  of  its  gracefulness. 

And  man  —  though  Man!  —  was  not  ashamed  to  dress. 

A  brave  formality,  a  measured  ease, 

Were  his  —  and  her's  —  whose  effort  was  to  please. 

And  to  excel  in  pleasing  was  to  reign 

And,  if  you  sighed,  never  to  sigh  in  vain. 

But  then,  as  now  —  it  may  be,  something  more — 
Woman  and  man  were  human  to  the  core. 
The  hearts  that  throbbed  behind  that  quaint  attire 
Burned  with  a  plenitude  of  essential  fire. 
They  too  could  risk,  they  also  could  rebel. 
They  could  love  wisely  —  they  could  love  too  welL 

275 


PROLOGUE 

In  that  great  duel  of  Sex,  that  ancient  strife 

Which  is  the  very  central  fact  of  life, 

They  could  —  and  did  —  engage  it  breath  for  breath, 

They  could  —  and  did  —  get  wounded  unto  death. 

As  at  all  times  since  time  for  us  began 

Woman  was  truly  woman,  man  was  man, 

And  joy  and  sorrow  were  as  much  at  home 

In  trifling  Tunbridge  as  in  mighty  Rome. 

Dead  —  dead  and  done  with!      Swift  from  shine  to 

shade 
The  roaring  generations  flit  and  fade. 
To  this  one,  fading,  flitting,  like  the  rest. 
We  come  to  proffer — be  it  worst  or  best — 
A  sketch,  a  shadow,  of  one  brave  old  time; 
A  hint  of  what  it  might  have  held  sublime; 
A  dream,  an  idyll,  call  it  what  you  will, 
Of  man  still  Man,  and  woman  — Woman  still! 


376 


Musical  Induction:  '* Lascia  ch'io  pianga"  {Rinaldo).    Handel. 

ACT  I 

The  Stage  represents  Miss  Foster's  apartments  at  the  fVells.  Doors, 
L.  and  C.  ;  a  window ^  L.  C,  looking  on  the  street ;  a  table,  R., 
laid  for  breakfast. 

SCENE  I 
Barbara  ;  to  her  Miss  Foster 

Barbara  {out  of  window),  Mr.  Menteith!  Mr.  Men- 
teith!  Mr.  Menteith!  — Drat  his  old  head!  Will  noth- 
ing make  him  hear?  —  Mr.  Menteith! 

Miss  Foster  {entering).  Barbara!  this  is  incredible: 
after  all  my  lessons,  to  be  leaning  from  the  window, 
and  calling  (for  unless  my  ears  deceived  me,  you  were 
positively  calling!)  into  the  street. 

Barbara.  Well,  madam,  just  wait  until  you  hear 
who  it  was.  I  declare  it  was  much  more  for  Miss 
Dorothy  and  yourself  than  for  me;  and  if  it  was  a  little 
countrified,  I  had  a  good  excuse. 

Miss  Foster.  Nonsense,  child!   At  least,  who  was  it  ? 

Barbara.  Miss  Evelina,  I  was  sure  you  would  ask. 
Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  I  was  looking  out  of  win- 
dow at  the  barber's  opposite 

Miss  Foster.  Of  which  I  entirely  disapprove 

277 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Barbara.  And  first  there  came  out  two  of  the  most 
beautiful the  Royal  livery,  madam! 

Miss  Foster.  Of  course,  of  course:  the  Duke  of  York 
arrived  last  night.  I  trust  you  did  not  hail  the  Duke's 
footman  ? 

Barbara.  O  no,  madam,  it  was  after  they  were  gone. 
Then,  who  should  come  out  —  but  you'll  never  guess! 

Miss  Foster.  I  shall  certainly  not  try. 

Barbara.  Mr.  Menteith  himself! 

Miss  Foster.  Why,  child,  I  never  heard  of  him. 

Barbara.  O  madam,  not  the  Beau's  own  gentleman  ? 

Miss  Foster.  Mr.  Austin's  servant.  No  ?  Is  it  pos- 
sible ?    By  that,  George  Austin  must  be  here. 

Barbara.  No  doubt  of  that,  madam;  they're  never 
far  apart.  He  came  out  feeling  his  chin,  madam,  so; 
and  a  packet  of  letters  under  his  arm,  so;  and  he  had 
the  Beau's  own  walk  to  that  degree  you  couldn't  tell 
his  back  from  his  master's. 

Miss  Foster.  My  dear  Barbara,  you  too  frequently 
forget  yourself.  A  young  woman  in  your  position 
must  beware  of  levity. 

Barbara.  Madam,  I  know  it;  but  la,  what  are  you 
to  make  of  me  ?  Look  at  the  time  and  trouble  dear 
Miss  Dorothy  was  always  taking  —  she  that  trained  up 
everybody  —  and  see  what's  come  of  it:  Barbara  Rid- 
ley I  was,  and  Barbara  Ridley  I  am;  and  I  don't  do 
with  fashionable  ways  —  I  can't  do  with  them;  and 
indeed.  Miss  Evelina,  I  do  sometimes  wish  we  were 
all  back  again  on  Edenside,  and  Mr.  Anthony  a  boy 
again,  and  dear  Miss  Dorothy  her  old  self,  galloping 
the  bay  mare  along  the  moor,  and  taking  care  of  all  of 
us  as  if  she  was  our  mother,  bless  her  heart! 

278 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster.  Miss  Dorothy  herself,  child  ?  Well, 
now  you  mention  it,  Tunbridge  of  late  has  scarcely 
seemed  to  suit  her  constitution.  She  falls  away,  has 
not  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog,  and  is  ridiculously  pale. 
Well,  now  Mr.  Austin  has  returned,  after  six  months 
of  infidelity  to  the  dear  Wells,  we  shall  all,  I  hope,  be 
brightened  up.     Has  the  mail  come  ? 

Barbara.  That  it  has,  madam,  and  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Menteith  put  it  clean  out  of  my  head.  {IVitb  letters.) 
Four  for  you.  Miss  Evelina,  two  for  me,  and  only  one 
for  Miss  Dorothy.  Miss  Dorothy  seems  quite  neglected, 
does  she  not?  Six  months  ago,  it  was  a  different 
story. 

Miss  Foster.  Well,  and  that's  true,  Barbara,  and  I 
had  not  remarked  it.  I  must  take  her  seriously  to 
task.  No  young  lady  in  her  position  should  neglect 
her  correspondence.  {Opening  a  letter.)  Here's  from 
that  dear  ridiculous  boy,  the  Cornet,  announcing  his 
arrival  for  to-day. 

Barbara.  O  madam,  will  he  come  in  his  red  coat  ? 

Miss  Foster.  I  could  not  conceive  him  missing  such 
a  chance.  Youth,  child,  is  always  vain,  and  Mr.  An- 
thony is  unusually  young. 

Barbara.  La,  madam,  he  can't  help  that. 

Miss  Foster.  My  child,  I  am  not  so  sure.  Mr.  An- 
thony is  a  great  concern  to  me.  He  was  orphaned, 
to  be  sure,  at  ten  years  old ;  and  ever  since  he  has 
been  only  as  it  were  his  sister's  son.  Dorothy  did 
everything  for  him :  more  indeed  than  I  thought  quite 
ladylike,  but  I  suppose  I  begin  to  be  old-fashioned. 
See  how  she  worked  and  slaved  —  yes,  slaved!  —  for 
him:  teaching  him  herself,  with  what  pains  and  pa- 

279 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

tience  she  only  could  reveal,  and  learning  that  she 
might  be  able;  and  see  what  he  is  now:  a  gentleman, 
of  course,  but,  to  be  frank,  a  very  commonplace  one: 
not  what  I  had  hoped  of  Dorothy's  brother;  not  what 
I  had  dreamed  of  the  heir  of  two  families  —  Musgrave 
and  Foster,  child!  Well,  he  may  now  meet  Mr.  Austin. 
He  requires  a  Mr.  Austin  to  embellish  and  correct  his 
manners.  {Opening  another  letter.)  Why,  Barbara, 
Mr.  John  Scrope  and  Miss  Kate  Dacre  are  to  be  married! 

Barbara.  La,  madam,  how  nice! 

Miss  Foster.  They  are:  As  I'm  a  sinful  woman. 
And  when  will  you  be  married,  Barbara?  and  when 
dear  Dorothy  ?    I  hate  to  see  old  maids  a-making. 

Barbara.  La,  Miss  Evelina,  there's  no  harm  in  an 
old  maid. 

Miss  Foster.  You  speak  like  a  fool,  child  :  sour 
grapes  are  all  very  well  but  it's  a  woman's  business  to 
be  married.  As  for  Dorothy,  she  is  five-and-twenty, 
and  she  breaks  my  heart.  Such  a  match,  too!  Ten 
thousand  to  her  fortune,  the  best  blood  in  the  north,  a 
most  advantageous  person,  all  the  graces,  the  finest 
sensibility,  excellent  judgment,  the  Foster  walk;  and 
all  these  to  go  positively  a-begging!  The  men  seem 
stricken  with  blindness.  Why,  child,  when  I  came 
out  (and  I  was  the  dear  girl's  image!)  I  had  more 
swains  at  my  feet  in  a  fortnight  than  our  Dorothy  in 

O,  I  cannot  fathom  it:  it  must  be  the  girl's  own 

fault. 

Barbara.  Why,  madam,  I  did  think  it  was  a  case 
with  Mr.  Austin. 

Miss  Foster.  With  Mr.  Austin  ?  why,  how  very 
fustic!     The  attentions  of  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Austin, 

280 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

child,  are  not  supposed  to  lead  to  matrimony.  He  is 
a  feature  of  society:  an  ornament:  a  personage:  a  pri- 
vate gentleman  by  birth,  but  a  kind  of  king  by  habit 
and  reputation.  What  woman  could  he  marry  ?  Those 
to  whom  he  might  properly  aspire  are  all  too  far  below 
him.  I  have  known  George  Austin  too  long,  child,  and 
I  understand  that  the  very  greatness  of  his  success  con- 
demns him  to  remain  unmarried. 

Barbara.  Sure,  madam,  that  must  be  tiresome  for 
him. 

Miss  Foster.  Some  day,  child,  you  will  know  better 
than  to  think  so.  George  Austin,  as  I  conceive  him, 
and  as  he  is  regarded  by  the  world,  is  one  of  the  tri- 
umphs of  the  other  sex.  I  walked  my  first  minuet  with 
him:  I  wouldn't  tell  you  the  year,  child,  for  worlds; 
but  it  was  soon  after  his  famous  rencounter  with 
Colonel  Villiers.  He  had  killed  his  man,  he  wore  pink 
and  silver,  was  most  elegantly  pale,  and  the  most  rav- 
ishing creature! 

Barbara.  Well,  madam,  I  believe  that:  he  is  the  most 
beautiful  gentleman  still. 


SCENE  II 
To  these,  Dorothy,  L 

Dorothy  {entering).  Good-morning,  aunt!  Is  there 
anything  for  me  ?  (She  goes  eagerly  to  table,  and  looks 
ut  letters. ) 

Miss  Foster.  Good-morrow,  niece.  Breakfast,  Bar- 
bara. 

Dorothy  {pith  letter  unopened).    Nothing. 
281 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster.  And  what  do  you  call  that,  my  dear  ? 
(Sitting.)     Is  John  Fen  wick  nobody  ? 

Dorothy  {looking  at  letter.)  From  John  ?  O  yes,  so 
it  is.  {Lays  down  letter  unopened^  and  sits  to  breakfast, 
Barbara  waiting. ) 

Miss  Foster  {to  Barbara,  with  plate).  Thanks,  child; 
now  you  may  give  me  some  tea.  Dolly,  I  must  insist 
on  your  eating  a  good  breakfast:  I  cannot  away  with 
your  pale  cheeks  and  that  Patience-on-a-Monument 
kind  of  look.  (Toast,  Barbara.)  At  Edenside  you  ate 
and  drank  and  looked  like  Hebe.  What  have  you  done 
with  your  appetite  ? 

Dorothy.  I  don't  know,  aunt,  I'm  sure. 

Miss  Foster.  Then  consider,  please,  and  recover  it  as 
soon  as  you  can:  to  a  young  lady  in  your  position  a 
good  appetite  is  an  attraction  —  almost  a  virtue.  Do 
you  know  that  your  brother  arrives  this  morning.? 

Dorothy.  Dear  Anthony!  Where  is  his  letter,  Aunt 
Evelina  ?  I  am  pleased  that  he  should  leave  London 
and  its  perils,  if  only  for  a  day. 

Miss  Foster.  My  dear,  there  are  moments  when  you 
positively  amaze  me.  (Barbara,  some  pdtd,  if  you 
please!)  I  beg  you  not  to  be  a  prude.  All  women,  of 
course,  are  virtuous;  but  a  prude  is  something  I  regard 
with  abhorrence.  The  Cornet  is  seeing  life,  which  is 
exactly  what  he  wanted.  You  brought  him  up  sur- 
prisingly well;  I  have  always  admired  you  for  it;  but 
let  us  admit  —  as  women  of  the  world,  my  dear  —  it 
was  no  upbringing  for  a  man.  You  and  that  fine  sol- 
emn fellow,  John  Fenwick,  led  a  life  that  was  posi- 
tively no  better  than  the  Middle  Ages;  and  between  the 
two  of  you,  poor  Anthony  (who,  I  am  sure,  was  a  most 

282 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

passive  creature!)  was  so  packed  with  principle  and  ad- 
monition that  I  vow  and  declare  he  reminded  me  of 
Issachar  stooping  between  his  two  burdens.  It  was 
high  time  for  him  to  be  done  with  your  apron-string, 
my  dear:  he  has  all  his  wild  oats  to  sow;  and  that  is 
an  occupation  which  it  is  unwise  to  defer  too  long.  By 
the  bye,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?  The  Duke  of  York 
has  done  us  a  service  for  which  I  was  unprepared. 
(More  tea,  Barbara!)  George  Austin,  bringing  the 
prince  in  his  train,  is  with  us  once  more. 

Dorothy.  I  knew  he  was  coming. 

Miss  Foster.  You  knew,  child  ?  and  did  not  tell  I> 
You  are  a  public  criminal. 

Dorothy.  I  did  not  think  it  mattered,  Aunt  Evelina,. 

Miss  Foster.  O  do  not  make-believe,  j  I  am  in  love 
with  him  myself,  and  have  been  any  time  since  Nelson 
and  the  Nile.  As  for  you,  Dolly,  since  he  went  away 
six  months  ago,  you  have  been  positively  in  the  me- 
grims. I  shall  date  your  loss  of  appetite  from  George 
Austin's  vanishing.  No,  my  dear,  our  family  require 
entertainment:  we  must  have  wit  about  us,  and  beauty, 
and  the  bel  air. 

Barbara.  Well,  Miss  Dorothy,  perhaps  it's  out  of  my 
place:  but  I  do  hope  Mr.  Austin  will  come:  I  should 
love  to  have  him  see  my  necklace  on. 

Dorothy.  Necklace  ?  what  necklace  ?  Did  he  give 
you  a  necklace  } 

Barbara.  Yes,  indeed.  Miss,  that  he  did:  the  very 
same  day  he  drove  you  in  his  curricle  to  Penshurst. 
You  remember.  Miss,  I  couldn't  go. 

Dorothy.  I  remember. 

Miss  Foster.  And  so  do  I.  I  had  a  touch  of  .  .  . 
283 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Foster  in  the  blood:  the  family  gout,  dears!  .  .  .  And 
you,  you  ungrateful  nymph,  had  him  a  whole  day  to 
yourself,  and  not  a  word  to  tell  me  when  you  returned. 

Dorothy.  I  remember.  {Rising. )  Is  that  the  neck- 
lace, Barbara?    It  does  not  suit  you.     Give  it  me. 

Barbara.  La,  Miss  Dorothy,  I  wouldn't  for  the  world. 

Dorothy.  Come,  give  it  me.  I  want  it.  Thank 
you:  you  shall  have  my  birthday  pearls  instead. 

Miss  Foster.  Why,  Dolly,  I  believe  you're  jealous 
of  the  maid.  Foster,  Foster:  always  a  Foster  trick  to 
wear  the  willow  in  anger. 

Dorothy.  I  do  not  think,  madam,  that  I  am  of  a 
jealous  habit. 

Miss  Foster.  O,  the  personage  is  your  excuse !  And 
I  can  tell  you,  child,  that  when  George  Austin  was 
playing  Florizel  to  the  Duchess's  Perdita,  all  the  maids 
in  England  fell  a  prey  to  green-eyed  melancholy.  It 
was  the  ton,  you  see:  not  to  pine  for  that  Sylvander 
was  to  resign  from  good  society. 

Dorothy.  Aunt  Evelina,  stop;  I  cannot  endure  to 
hear  you.  What  is  he  after  all  but  just  Beau  Austin  } 
What  has  he  done  —  with  half  a  century  of  good 
health,  what  has  he  done  that  is  either  memorable 
or  worthy?  Diced  and  danced  and  set  fashions;  van- 
quished in  a  drawing-room,  fought  for  a  word ;  what 
else?  As  if  these  were  the  meaning  of  life!  Do  not 
make  me  think  so  poorly  of  all  of  us  women.  Sure, 
we  can  rise  to  admire  a  better  kind  of  man  than  Mr. 
Austin.  We  are  not  all  to  be  snared  with  the  eye, 
dear  aunt;  and  those  that  are  —  O !  I  know  not  whether 
I  more  hate  or  pity  them. 

Miss  Foster.  You  will  give  me  leave,  my  niece: 
284 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

such  talk  is  neither  becoming  in  a  young  lady  nor  cred- 
itable to  your  understanding.  The  world  was  made  a 
great  while  before  Miss  Dorothy  Musgrave;  and  you 
will  do  much  better  to  ripen  your  opinions,  and  in  the 
meantime  read  your  letter,  which  I  perceive  you  have 
not  opened.  {Dorothy  opens  and  reads  letter.)  Bar- 
bara, child,  you  should  not  listen  at  table. 

Barbara.  Sure,  madam,  I  hope  I  know  my  place. 

Miss  Foster.  Then  do  not  do  it  again. 

Dorothy.  Poor  John  Fen  wick!  he  coming  here! 

Miss  Foster.  Well,  and  why  not?  Dorothy,  my 
darling  child,  you  give  me  pain.  You  never  had  but 
one  chance,  let  me  tell  you  pointedly:  and  that  was 
John  Fenwick.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  not  let  my 
vanity  so  blind  me.     This  is  not  the  way  to  marry. 

Dorothy.  Dear  aunt,  I  shall  never  marry. 

Miss  Foster.  A  fiddlestick's  end!  every  one  must 
marry.     (Rising.)     Are  you  for  the  Pantiles  ? 

Dorothy.  Not  to-day,  dear. 

Miss  Foster.  Well,  well !  have  your  wish,  Dolorosa. 
Barbara,  attend  and  dress  me. 

SCENE   III 

Dorothy 

Dorothy.  How  she  tortures  me,  poor  aunt,  my  poor 
blind  aunt;  and  I  —  I  could  break  her  heart  with  a 
word.  That  she  should  see  nothing,  know  nothing 
—  there's  where  it  kills.  O,  it  is  more  than  I  can  bear 
.  .  .  and  yet,  how  much  less  than  I  deserve!  Mad 
girl,  of  what  do  I  complain  ?  that  this  dear  innocent 
woman  still  believes  me  good,  still  pierces  me  to  the 

285 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

soul  with  trustfulness.  Alas,  and  were  it  otherwise, 
were  her  dear  eyes  opened  to  the  truth,  what  were 
left  me  but  death? — He,  too  —  she  must  still  be  prais- 
ing him,  and  every  word  is  a  lash  upon  my  conscience. 
If  1  could  die  of  my  secret:  if  I  could  cease  —  but  one 
moment  cease  —  this  living  lie;  if  I  could  sleep  and 
forget  and  be  at  rest!  —  Poor  John !  {Reading  the  letter) 
he  at  least  is  guiltless;  and  yet  for  my  fault  he  too  must 
suffer,  he  too  must  bear  part  in  my  shame.  Poor  John 
Fenwickl  Has  he  come  back  with  the  old  story:  with 
what  might  have  been,  perhaps,  had  we  stayed  by 
Edenside  ?    Eden  ?  yes,  my  Eden,  from  which  I  fell. 

0  my  old  north  country,  my  old  river — the  river  of 
my  innocence,  the  old  country  of  my  hopes  —  how 
could  I  endure  to  look  on  you  now  }  And  how  to 
meet  John  ? — John,  with  the  old  love  on  his  lips, 
the  old,  honest,  innocent,  faithful  heart!  There  was  a 
Dorothy  once  who  was  not  unfit  to  ride  with  him,  her 
heart  as  light  as  his,  her  life  as  clear  as  the  bright  rivers 
we  forded;  he  called  her  his  Diana,  he  crowned  her  so 
with  rowan.  Where  is  that  Dorothy  now  ?  that  Di- 
ana ?  she  that  was  everything  to  John  ?  For  O,  I  did 
him  good;  I  know  I  did  him  good;  I  will  still  believe 

1  did  him  good:  I  made  him  honest  and  kind  and  a 
true  man;  alas,  and  could  not  guide  myself!  And  now, 
how  will  he  despise  me!  For  he  shall  know;  if  I  die, 
he  shall  know  all;  I  could  not  live,  and  not  be  true 
with  him.  (She  takes  out  the  necklace  and  looks  at  it.) 
That  he  should  have  bought  me  from  my  maid !  George, 
George,  that  you  should  have  stooped  to  this!  Basely 
as  you  have  used  me,  this  is  the  basest.  Perish  the 
witness!     {She  treads  the  trinket  under  foot.)    Break, 

286 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

break  like  my  heart,  break  like  my  hopes,  perish  like 
my  good  name! 

SCENE   IV 
To  her,  Fenwick,  C 

Fenwick  {after  a  pause).  Is  this  how  you  receive  me, 
Dorothy  ?    Am  I  not  welcome  ?  —  Shall  I  go  then  ? 

Dorothy  {running  to  him,  with  hands  outstretched). 
O  no,  John,  not  for  me.  {Turning,  and  pointing  to  the 
necklace.)     But  you  find  me  changed. 

Fenwick  {with  a  movement  towards  the  necklace). 
This  } 

Dorothy.  No,  no,  let  it  lie.  That  is  a  trinket  — 
broken.     But  the  old  Dorothy  is  dead. 

Fenwick.  Dead,  dear  ?    Not  to  me. 

Dorothy.  Dead  to  you  —  dead  to  all  men. 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  I  loved  you  as  a  boy.  There  is 
not  a  meadow  on  Edenside  but  is  dear  to  me  for  your 
sake,  not  a  cottage  but  recalls  your  goodness,  not  a 
rock  nor  a  tree  but  brings  back  something  of  the  best 
and  brightest  youth  man  ever  had.  You  were  my 
teacher  and  my  queen;  I  walked  with  you,  I  talked 
with  you,  I  rode  with  you;  I  lived  in  your  shadow;  I 
saw  with  your  eyes.  You  will  never  know,  dear 
Dorothy,  what  you  were  to  the  dull  boy  you  bore  with ; 
you  will  never  know  with  what  romance  you  filled  my 
life,  with  what  devotion,  with  what  tenderness  and 
honour.  At  night  I  lay  awake  and  worshipped  you; 
in  my  dreams  I  saw  you,  and  you  loved  me;  and  you 
remember,  when  we  told  each  other  stories  —  you  have 
not  forgotten,  dearest — that  Princess  Hawthorn  that 

287 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

was  still  the  heroine  of  mine :  who  was  she  ?  I  was  not 
bold  enough  to  tell,  but  she  was  you!  You,  my  virgin 
huntress,  my  Diana,  my  queen. 

Dorothy.  O  silence,  silence — pity! 

Fenwick.  No,  dear;  neither  for  your  sake  nor  mine 
will  I  be  silenced.  I  have  begun;  I  must  go  on  and 
finish,  and  put  fortune  to  the  touch.  It  was  from  you 
I  learned  honour,  duty,  piety,  and  love.  I  am  as  you 
made  me,  and  I  exist  but  to  reverence  and  serve  you. 
Why  else  have  I  come  here,  the  length  of  England,  my 
heart  burning  higher  every  mile,  my  very  horse  a  clog 
to  me  ?  why,  but  to  ask  you  for  my  wife  ?  Dorothy, 
you  will  not  deny  me. 

Dorothy.  You  have  not  asked  me  about  this  broken 
trinket  ? 

Fenwick.  Why  should  I  ask  ?    I  love  you. 

Dorothy.  Yet  I  must  tell  you.  Sit  down.  {She  picks 
up  the  necklace,  and  stands  looking  at  it.  Then,  break- 
ing down.)    O  John,  John,  it's  long  since  I  left  home. 

Fenwick.  Too  long,  dear  love.  The  very  trees  will 
welcome  you. 

Dorothy.  Ay,  John,  but  I  no  longer  love  you.  The 
old  Dorothy  is  dead,  God  pardon  herl 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  who  is  the  man  ? 

Dorothy.  O  poor  Dorothy !  O  poor  dead  Dorothy ! 
John,  you  found  me  breaking  this:  me,  your  Diana  of 
the  Fells,  the  Diana  of  your  old  romance  by  Edenside. 
Diana  —  O  what  a  name  for  me!  Do  you  see  this  trin- 
ket }  It  is  a  chapter  in  my  life.  A  chapter,  do  I  say  ?  my 
whole  life,  for  there  is  none  to  follow.  John,  you  must 
bear  with  me,  you  must  help  me.  I  have  that  to  tell  — 
there  is  a  secret — I  have  a  secret,  John  —  O,  for  God's 

288 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

sake,  understand.     That  Diana  you  revered  —  OJohn, 
John,  you  must  never  speak  of  love  to  me  again. 

Fenwick.  What  do  you  say  ?    How  dare  you  ? 

Dorothy.  John,  it  is  the  truth.  Your  Diana,  even 
she,  she  whom  you  so  believed  in,  she  who  so  believed 
in  herself,  came  out  into  the  world  only  to  be  broken. 
I  met,  here  at  the  Wells,  a  man  —  why  should  I  tell  you 
his  name  ?  I  met  him,  and  I  loved  him.  My  heart  was 
all  his  own;  yet  he  was  not  content  with  that:  he  must 
intrigue  to  catch  me,  he  must  bribe  my  maid  with  this. 
{Throws  the  necklace  on  the  table.)  Did  he  love  me? 
Well,  John,  he  said  he  did;  and  be  it  so!  He  loved,  he 
betrayed,  and  he  has  left  me. 

Fenwick.  Betrayed  ? 

Dorothy.  Ay,  even  so;  I  was  betrayed.  The  fault 
was  mine  that  I  forgot  our  innocent  youth,  and  your 
honest  love. 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  O  Dorothy! 

Dorothy.  Yours  is  the  pain;  but,  OJohn,  think  it  is 
for  your  good.  Think  in  England  how  many  true  maids 
may  be  waiting  for  your  love,  how  many  that  can  bring 
you  a  whole  heart,  and  be  a  noble  mother  to  your  chil- 
dren, while  your  poor  Diana,  at  the  first  touch,  has 
proved  all  frailty.  Go,  go  and  be  happy,  and  let  me 
be  patient.     I  have  sinned. 

Fenwick.  By  God,  I'll  have  his  blood. 

Dorothy.  Stop!  I  love  him.  {Between  Fenwick  and 
door,  C) 

Fenwick.  What  do  I  care  ?  I  loved  you  too.  Little 
he  thought  of  that,  little  either  of  you  thought  of  that. 
His  blood  —  I'll  have  his  blood! 

Dorothy.  You  shall  never  know  his  name. 
289 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Fenwick.  Know  it  ?  Do  you  think  I  cannot  guess  ? 
Do  you  think  I  had  not  heard  he  followed  you?  Do  you 
think  I  had  not  suffered  —  O  suffered  I  George  Austin 
is  the  man.    Dear  shall  he  pay  it! 

Dorothy  {at  his  feet).  Pity  me;  spare  me,  spare  your 
Dorothy !    I  love  him  —  love  him  —  love  him ! 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  you  have  robbed  me  of  my  hap- 
piness, and  now  you  would  rob  me  of  my  revenge. 

Dorothy.  I  know  it;  and  shall  I  ask,  and  you  not 
grant  ? 

Fenwick  (raising  her).  No,  Dorothy,  you  shall  ask 
nothing,  nothing  in  vain  from  me.  You  ask  his  life ;  I 
give  it  you,  as  I  would  give  you  my  soul;  as  I  would 
give  you  my  life,  if  I  had  any  left.  My  life  is  done; 
you  have  taken  it.  Not  a  hope,  not  an  end;  not  even 
revenge.    {He  sits.)    Dorothy,  you  see  your  work. 

Dorothy.  O  God,  forgive  me. 

Fenwick.  Ay,  Dorothy,  He  will,  as  I  do. 

Dorothy.  As  you  do  ?   Do  you  forgive  me,  John  ? 

Fenwick.  Ay,  more  than  that,  poor  soul.  I  said  my 
life  was  done,  I  was  wrong ;  I  have  still  a  duty.  It  is 
not  in  vain  you  taught  me;  I  shall  still  prove  to  you 
that  it  was  not  in  vain.  You  shall  soon  find  that  I  am 
no  backward  friend.    Farewell. 


290 


Musical  Induction  :  '*  The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill," 

ACT  II 

The  Stage  represents  George  Austin's  dressing-room.  Elaborate 
toilet-table,  R.,  with  chair ;  a  cheval  glass  so  arranged  as  to  cor^ 
respond  with  glass  on  table.  Breakfast-table,  L.,  front.  Door, 
L.  The  Beau  is  discovered  at  table,  in  dressing-gown,  trifling  with 
correspondence.     Menteith  is  frothing  chocolate. 

SCENE   I 
Austin,  Menteith 

Menteith.  At  the  barber's,  Mr.  George,  I  had  the 
•pleasure  of  meeting  two  of  the  Dook's  gentlemen.    . 

Austin.  Well,  and  was  his  Royal  Highness  satisfied 
with  his  quarters  .^ 

Menteith.  Quite  so,  Mr.  George.  Delighted,  I  be- 
lieve. 

Austin.  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it.  I  wish  I  could  say 
I  was  as  pleased  with  my  journey,  Menteith.  This  is 
the  first  time  I  ever  came  to  the  Wells  in  another  per- 
son's carriage;  Duke  or  not,  it  shall  be  the  last,  Men- 
teith. 

Menteith.  Ah,  Mr.  George,  no  wonder.  And  how 
many  times  have  we  made  that  journey  back  and  forth  .^ 

Austin.  Enough  to  make  us  older  than  we  look. 
291 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Menteith.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  George,  you  do  wear 
well. 

Austin.  We  wear  well,  Menteith. 

Menteith.  I  hear,  Mr.  George,  that  Miss  Musgrave  is 
of  the  company. 

Austin.  Is  she  so?    Well,  well!  well,  well! 

Menteith.  I've  not  seen  the  young  lady  myself,  Mr. 
George;  but  the  barber  tells  me  she's  looking  poorly. 

Austin.  Poorly  ? 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George,  poorly  was  his  word. 

Austin.  Well,  Menteith,  I  am  truly  sorry.  She  is  not 
the  first. 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George.  {A  hell,  Menteith  goes 
out,  and  re-enters  with  card. ) 

Austin  {with  card).  Whom  have  we  here  ?  Anthony 
Musgrave  ? 

Menteith.  A  fine  young  man,  Mr.  George;  and  with 
a  look  of  the  young  lady,  but  not  so  gentlemanly. 

Austin.  You  have  an  eye,  you  have  an  eye.  Let 
him  in. 

SCENE  II 

Austin,  Menteith,  Anthony 

Austin.  I  am  charmed  to  have  this  opportunity,  Mr. 
Musgrave.  You  belong  to  my  old  corps,  I  think  ?  And 
how  does  my  good  friend.  Sir  Frederick  }  I  had  his 
line;  but  like  all  my  old  comrades,  he  thinks  last  about 
himself,  and  gives  me  not  of  his  news. 

Anthony.  I  protest,  sir,  this  is  a  very  proud  moment. 
Your  name  is  still  remembered  in  the  regiment.  (Austin 
horms.)    The  Colonel  —  he  keeps  his  health,  sir,  con- 

292 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

sidering  his  age  (Austin  bows  again,  and  looks  at  Men- 
teith) — tells  us  young  men  you  were  a  devil  of  a  fellow 
in  your  time. 

Austin.  I  believe  I  was  —  in  my  time.  Menteith, 
give  Mr.  Musgrave  a  dish  of  chocolate.  So,  sir,  we  see 
you  at  the  Wells. 

Anthony.  I  have  but  just  alighted.  I  had  but  one 
thought,  sir:  to  pay  my  respects  to  Mr.  Austin.  I  have 
not  yet  kissed  my  aunt  and  sister. 

Austin.  In  my  time  —  to  which  you  refer  —  the  ladies 
had  come  first. 

Anthony.  The  women  ?  I  take  you,  sir.  But  then 
you  see,  a  man's  relatives  don't  count.  And  besides, 
Mr.  Austin,  between  men  of  the  world,  I  am  fairly  run- 
ning away  from  the  sex:  I  am  positively  in  flight. 
Little  Hortense  of  the  Opera;  you  know;  she  sent  her 
love  to  you.  She's  mad  about  me,  I  think.  You  never 
saw  a  creature  so  fond. 

Austin.  Well,  well,  child!  you  are  better  here.  In 
my  time  —  to  which  you  have  referred  —  I  knew  the 
lady.     Does  she  wear  well  ? 

Anthony.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir! 

Austin.  No  offence,  child,  no  offence.  She  was  a 
very  lively  creature.  But  you  neglect  your  chocolate, 
1  see  } 

Anthony.  We  don't  patronise  it,  Mr.  Austin;  we 
haven't  for  some  years :  the  service  has  quite  changed 
since  your  time.     You'd  be  surprised. 

Austin.  Doubtless.     I  am. 

Anthony.  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  and  Jack  Bosbury  of  the 
Fifty-Second 

Austin.  The  Hampshire  Bosburys  ? 

293 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Anthony.  I  do  not  know  exactly,  sir.  I  believe  he 
is  related. 

Austin.  Or  perhaps  —  I  remember  a  Mr.  Bosbury,  a 
cutter  of  coats.  1  have  the  vanity  to  believe  I  formed 
his  business. 

Anthony.  I  —  I  hope  not,  sir.  But  as  I  was  saying, 
1  and  this  Jack  Bosbury,  and  the  Brummagem  Bantam 
—  a  very  pretty  light-weight,  sir  —  drank  seven  bottles 
of  Burgundy  to  the  three  of  us  inside  the  eighty  minutes. 
Jack,  sir,  was  a  little  cut;  but  me  and  the  Bantam  went 
out  and  finished  the  evening  on  hot  gin.  Life,  sir,  life! 
Tom  Cribb  was  with  us.  He  spoke  of  you,  too,  Tom 
did:  said  you'd  given  him  a  wrinkle  for  his  second 
fight  with  the  black  man.  No,  sir,  I  assure  you,  you're 
not  forgotten. 

Austin  (bows).  I  am  pleased  to  learn  it.  In  my  time, 
I  had  an  esteem  for  Mr.  Cribb. 

Anthony.  O  come,  sir!  but  your  time  cannot  be  said 
to  be  over. 

Austin.  Menteith,  you  hear  ? 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George. 
.  Anthony.  The  Colonel  told  me  that  you  liked  to 
shake  an  elbow.  Your  big  main,  sir,  with  Lord  Wens- 
leydale,  is  often  talked  about.  I  hope  I  may  have  the 
occasion  to  sit  down  with  you.  I  shall  count  it  an 
honour,  I  assure  you. 

Austin.  But  would  your  aunt,  my  very  good  friend, 
approve  ? 

Anthony.  Why,  sir,  you  do  not  suppose  I  am  in 
leading-strings  ? 

Austin.  You  forget,  child:  a  family  must  hang  to- 
gether.    When   I  was  young  —  in  my  time  —  1  was 

294 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

alone;  and  what  I  did  concerned  myself.  But  a  youth 
who  has  —  as  I  think  you  have  —  a  family  of  ladies  to 
protect,  must  watch  his  honour,  child,  and  preserve 
his  fortune.  .  .  .  You  have  no  commands  from  Sir 
Frederick  ? 

Anthony.  None,  sir,  none. 

Austin.  Shall  1  find  you  this  noon  upon  the  Pantiles  ? 
.  .  .  I  shall  be  charmed.  Commend  me  to  your  aunt 
and  your  fair  sister.     Menteith  ? 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George.     (Shows  Anthony  out.) 


SCENE    III 

Austin,  Menteith,  returning 

Austin.  Was  I  ever  like  that,  Menteith  ? 

Menteith.  No,  Mr.  George,  you  was  always  a  gen- 
tleman. 

Austin.  Youth,  my  good  fellow,  youth. 

Menteith.  Quite  so,  Mr.  George. 

Austin.  Well,  Menteith,  we  cannot  make  nor  mend. 
We  cannot  play  the  jockey  with  Time.  Age  is  the 
test:  of  wine,  Menteith,  and  men. 

Menteith.  Me  and  you  and  the  old  Hermitage,  Mr. 
George,  he-he! 

Austin.  And  the  best  of  these,  the  Hermitage.  But 
come:  we  lose  our  day.  Help  me  off  with  this.  (Men- 
teith takes  off  Austin's  dressing-gown ;  Austin  passes 
R,  to  dressing-table,  and  takes  up  first  cravat. ) 

Austin.  Will  the  hair  do,  Menteith  } 

Menteith.  Never  saw  it  lay  better,  Mr.  George. 
(Austin  proceeds  to  wind  first  cravat.     A  beU:   exit 

295 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Menteith.   Austin  drops  first  cravat  in  basket  and  takes 
second.) 
Austin  {winding  and  singing) — 

*'  I'd  crowns  resign 
To  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill!  ** 

{Second  cravat  a  failure.  Re-enter  Menteith  with  card. ) 
Fenwick  ?  of  Allonby  Shaw  ?  A  good  family,  Menteith, 
but  I  don't  know  the  gentleman.  {Lays  down  card, 
and  takes  up  third  cravat.)  Send  him  away  with  every 
consideration. 

Menteith.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  George.  {He  goes  out. 
Third  cravat  a  success.  Re-enter  Menteith.)  He  says, 
Mr.  George,  that  he  has  an  errand  from  Miss  Musgrave. 

Austin  {with  waistcoat).  Show  him  in,  Menteith,  at 
once.     {Singing  and  fitting  waistcoat  at  glass)  — 

"  I'd  crowns  resign 
To  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill! " 

SCENE  IV 
Austin,  R.     To  him  Menteith  and  Fenwick 

Menteith  {announcing).    Mr.  Fenwick,  Mr.  George. 

Austin.  At  the  name  of  Miss  Musgrave,  my  doors  fly 
always  open. 

Fenwick.  I  believe,  sir,  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
cousin,  Richard  Gaunt? 

Austin.  The  county  member?  An  old  and  good 
friend.  But  you  need  not  go  so  far  afield:  I  know 
your  good  house  of  Allonby  Shaw  since  the  days  of  the 

296 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

Black  Knight.  We  are,  in  fact,  and  at  a  very  royal  dis- 
tance, cousins. 

Fenwick.  I  desired,  sir,  from  the  nature  of  my  busi- 
ness, that  you  should  recognise  me  for  a  gentleman. 

Austin.  The  preliminary,  sir,  is  somewhat  grave. 

Fenwick.  My  business  is  both  grave  and  delicate. 

Austin.  Menteith,  my  good  fellow.  {£;v//Menteith.) 
Mr.  Fenwick,  honour  me  so  far  as  to  be  seated.  ( They 
sit.)    I  await  your  pleasure. 

Fenwick.  Briefly,  sir,  I  am  come,  not  without  hope, 
to  appeal  to  your  good  heart. 

Austin.  From  Miss  Musgrave  ? 

Fenwick.  No,  sir,  I  abused  her  name,  and  am  here 
upon  my  own  authority.     Upon  me  the  consequence. 

Austin.  Proceed. 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  Dorothy  Musgrave  is  the  old- 
est and  dearest  of  my  friends,  is  the  lady  whom  for  ten 
years  it  has  been  my  hope  to  make  my  wife.  She  has 
shown  me  reason  to  discard  that  hope  for  another:  that 
I  may  call  her  Mrs.  Austin. 

Austin.  In  the  best  interests  of  the  lady  (rmng)  I 
question  if  you  have  been  well  inspired.  You  are 
aware,  sir,  that  from  such  interference  there  is  but  one 
issue :  to  whom  shall  I  address  my  friend  ? 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  I  am  here  to  throw  myself 
upon  your  mercy.  Strange  as  my  errand  is,  it  will 
seem  yet  more  strange  to  you  that  I  came  prepared  to 
accept  at  your  hands  any  extremity  of  dishonour  and 
not  fight.  The  lady  whom  it  is  my  boast  to  serve  has 
honoured  me  with  her  commands.  These  are  my  law, 
and  by  these  your  life  is  sacred. 

Austin.  Then,  sir  {with  his  hand  upon  the  bell),  this 
297 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

conversation  becomes  impossible.  You  have  me  at  too 
gross  a  disadvantage;  and,  as  you  are  a  gentleman  and 
respect  another,  I  would  suggest  that  you  retire. 

Fenwick.  Sir,  you  speak  of  disadvantage;  think  of 
mine.  All  my  life  long,  with  all  the  forces  of  my 
nature,  I  have  loved  this  lady.  I  came  here  to  implore 
her  to  be  my  wife,  to  be  my  queen;  my  saint  she  had 
been  always!  She  was  too  noble  to  deceive  me.  She 
told  me  what  you  know.  I  will  not  conceal  that  my 
first  mood  was  of  anger:  I  would  have  killed  you  like 
a  dog.  But,  Mr.  Austin  —  bear  with  me  awhile  —  I, 
on  the  threshold  of  my  life,  who  have  made  no  figure 
in  the  world,  nor  ever  shall  now,  who  had  but  one 
treasure,  and  have  lost  it — if  I,  abandoning  revenge, 
trampling  upon  jealousy,  can  supplicate  you  to  com- 
plete my  misfortune  —  O  Mr.  Austin!  you  who  have 
lived,  you  whose  gallantry  is  beyond  the  insolence  of  a 
suspicion,  you  who  are  a  man  crowned  and  acclaimed, 
who  are  loved,  and  loved  by  such  a  woman  —  you 
who  excel  me  in  every  point  of  advantage,  will  you 
suffer  me  to  surpass  you  in  generosity  ? 

Austin.  You  speak  from  the  heart.  (Sits.)  What 
do  you  want  with  me  ? 

Fenwick.  Marry  her. 

Austin.  Mr.  Fenwick,  I  am  the  older  man.  I  have 
seen  much  of  life,  much  of  society,  much  of  love.  When 
I  was  young,  it  was  expected  of  a  gentleman  to  be 
ready  with  his  hat  to  a  lady,  ready  with  his  sword  to  a 
man;  to  honour  his  word  and  his  king;  to  be  courteous 
with  his  equals,  generous  to  his  dependants,  helpful 
and  trusty  in  friendship.  But  it  was  not  asked  of  us  to 
be  quixotic.     If  1  had  married  every  lady  by  whom  it 

298 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

is  my  fortune  —  not  my  merit  —  to  have  been  distin- 
guished, the  Wells  would  scarce  be  spacious  enough 
for  my  establishment.  You  see,  sir,  that  while  I  re- 
spect your  emotion,  I  am  myself  conducted  by  expe- 
rience. And  besides,  Mr.  Fenwick,  is  not  love  a  war- 
fare ?  has  it  not  rules  ?  have  not  our  fair  antagonists 
their  tactics,  their  weapons,  their  place  of  arms  ?  and 
is  there  not  a  touch  of —  pardon  me  the  word !  of  silli- 
ness in  one  who,  having  fought,  and  having  vanquished, 
sounds  a  parley,  and  capitulates  to  his  own  prisoner.^ 
Had  the  lady  chosen,  had  the  fortune  of  war  been  other, 
'tis  like  she  had  been  Mrs.  Austin.  Now!  .  .  .  You 
know  the  world. 

Fenwick.  I  know,  sir,  that  the  world  contains  much 
cowardice.  To  find  Mr.  Austin  afraid  to  do  the  right, 
this  surprises  me. 

Austin.  Afraid,  child  ? 

Fenwick.  Yes,  sir,  afraid.  You  know  her,  you  know 
if  she  be  worthy ;  and  you  answer  me  with  —  the  world : 
the  world  which  has  been  at  your  feet:  the  world  which 
Mr.  Austin  kndws  so  well  how  to  value  and  is  so  able 
to  rule. 

Austin.  I  have  lived  long  enough,  Mr.  Fenwick,  to 
recognise  that  the  world  is  a  great  power.  It  can 
make;  but  it  can  break. 

Fenwick.  Sir,  suffer  me:  you  spoke  but  now  of 
friendship,  and  spoke  warmly.  Have  you  forgotten 
Colonel  Villiers  ? 

Austin.  Mr.  Fenwick,  Mr.  Fenwick,  you  forget  what 
I  have  suffered. 

Fenwick.  O  sir,  I  know  you  loved  him.  And  yet, 
for  a  random  word   you   quarrelled;    friendship  was 

299 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

weighed  in  vain  against  the  world's  code  of  honour; 
you  fought,  and  your  friend  fell.  I  have  heard  from 
others  how  he  lay  long  in  agony,  and  how  you  watched 
and  nursed  him,  and  it  was  in  your  embrace  he  died. 
In  God's  name  have  you  forgotten  that  ?  Was  not  this 
sacrifice  enough  ?  or  must  the  world,  once  again,  step 
between  Mr.  Austin  and  his  generous  heart  ? 

Austin.  Good  God,  sir,  I  believe  you  are  in  the  right: 
I  believe,  upon  my  soul  I  believe,  there  is  something  in 
what  you  say. 

Fenwick.  Something,  Mr.  Austin?  O  credit  me,  the 
whole  difference  betwixt  good  and  evil. 

Austin.  Nay,  nay,  but  there  you  go  too  far.  There 
are  many  kinds  of  good:  honour  is  a  diamond  cut  in  a 
thousand  facets,  and  with  the  true  fire  in  each.  Thus, 
and  with  all  our  differences,  Mr.  Fenwick,  you  and  I 
can  still  respect,  we  can  still  admire  each  other. 

Fenwick.  Bear  with  me  still,  sir,  if  I  ask  you  what  is 
the  end  of  life  but  to  excel  in  generosity  ?  To  pity  the 
weak,  to  comfort  the  afflicted,  to  right  where  we  have 
wronged,  to  be  brave  in  reparation  —  these  noble  ele- 
ments you  have;  for  of  what  besides  is  the  fabric  of 
your  dealing  with  Colonel  Villiers  ?  That  is  man's 
chivalry  to  man.  Yet  to  a  suffering  woman  —  a  woman 
feeble,  betrayed,  unconsoled — you  deny  your  clemency, 
you  refuse  your  aid,  you  proffer  injustice  for  atonement. 
Nay,  you  are  so  disloyal  to  yourself  that  you  can  choose 
to  be  ungenerous  and  unkind.  Where,  sir,  is  the  hon- 
our ?    What  facet  of  the  diamond  is  that  ? 

Austin.  You  forget,  sir,  you  forget.     But  go  on. 

Fenwick.  O  sir,  not  I  —  not  I  but  yourself  forgets : 
George  Austin  forgets  George  Austin.     A  woman  loved 

300 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

by  him,  betrayed  by  him,  abandoned  by  him  —  that 
woman  suffers;  and  a  point  of  honour  keeps  him  from 
his  place  at  her  feet.  She  has  played  and  lost,  and  the 
world  is  with  him  if  he  deign  to  exact  the  stakes.  Is 
that  the  Mr.  Austin  whom  Miss  Musgrave  honoured 
with  her  trust?  Then,  sir,  how  miserably  was  she 
deceived! 

Austin.  Child  — child 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  still  bear  with  me,  still  follow 
me.  O  sir,  will  you  not  picture  that  dear  lady's  life  ? 
Her  years  how  few,  her  error  thus  irreparable,  what 
henceforth  can  be  her  portion  but  remorse,  the  con- 
sciousness of  self-abasement,  the  shame  of  knowing 
that  her  trust  was  ill-bestowed.?  To  think  of  it:  this 
was  a  queen  among  women;  and  this  —  this  is  George 
Austin's  work!  Sir,  let  me  touch  your  heart:  let  me 
prevail  with  you  to  feel  that  'tis  impossible. 

Austin.  I  am  a  gentleman.     What  do  you  ask  of  me  ? 

Fenwick.  To  be  the  man  she  loved :  to  be  clement 
where  the  world  would  have  you  triumph,  to  be  of 
equal  generosity  with  the  vanquished,  to  be  worthy 
of  her  sacrifice  and  of  yourself. 

Austin.  Mr.  Fenwick,  your  reproof  is  harsh 

Fenwick  {interrupting  him).  O  sir,  be  just,  be 
just! 

Austin.  But  it  is  merited,  and  I  thank  you  for  its 
utterance.  You  tell  me  that  the  true  victory  comes 
when  the  fight  is  won :  that  our  foe  is  never  so  noble 
nor  so  dangerous  as  when  she  is  fallen,  that  the  crown- 
ing triumph  is  that  we  celebrate  over  our  conquer- 
ing selves.  Sir,  you  are  right.  Kindness,  ay  kindness 
after  all.     And  with  age,  to  become  clement.     Yes, 

301 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

ambition  first;  then,  the  rounded  vanity  —  victory  still 
novel;  and  last,  as  you  say,  the  royal  mood  of  the  ma- 
ture man:  to  abdicate  for  others.  .  .  .  Sir,  you  touched 
me  hard  about  my  dead  friend;  still  harder  about  my 
living  duty;  and  I  am  not  so  young  but  I  can  take  a 
lesson.  There  is  my  hand  upon  it:  she  shall  be  my 
wife. 

Fenwick.  Ah,  Mr.  Austin,  I  was  sure  of  it. 

Austin.  Then,  sir,  you  were  vastly  mistaken.  There 
is  nothing  of  Beau  Austin  here.  1  have  simply,  my 
dear  child,  sate  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Fenwick. 

Fenwick.  Ah,  sir,  your  heart  was  counsellor  enough. 

Austin.  Pardon  me.  I  am  vain  enough  to  be  the 
judge:  there  are  but  two  people  in  the  world  who 
could  have  wrought  this  change:  yourself  and  that 
dear  lady.  {Touches  bell.)  Suffer  me  to  dismiss  you. 
One  instant  of  toilet,  and  I  follow.  Will  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  go  before,  and  announce  my  approach  ? 
{Enter  Menteith.  ) 

Fenwick.  Sir,  if  my  admiration 

Austin.  Dear  child,  the  admiration  is  the  other  way. 
{Embraces  him.    Menteith  shows  him  out.) 

SCENE   V 

Austin 

Austin.  Upon  my  word,  I  think  the  world  is  getting 
better.  We  were  none  of  us  young  men  like  that  —  in 
my  time,  to  quote  my  future  brother.  {He  sits  down 
before  the  mirror.)  Well,  here  ends  Beau  Austin. 
Paris,  Rome,  Vienna,  London  —  victor  everywhere: 
and  now  he  must  leave  his  bones  in  Tunbridge  Wells. 

30a 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

{Looks  at  his  leg.)  Poor  Dolly  Musgrave!  a  good  girl 
after  all,  and  will  make  me  a  good  wife;  none  better. 
The  last  —  of  how  many?  —  ay,  and  the  best!  Walks 
like  Hebe.  But  still,  here  ends  Beau  Austin.  Perhaps 
it's  time.  Poor  Dolly  —  was  she  looking  poorly?  She 
shall  have  her  wish.  Well,  we  grow  older,  but  we 
grow  no  worse. 

SCENE  VI 
Austin,  Menteith 

Austin.  Menteith,  I  am  going  to  be  married. 

Menteith.  Well,  Mr.  George,  but  I  am  pleased  to 
hear  it.     Miss  Musgrave  is  a  most  elegant  lady. 

Austin.  Ay,  Mr.  Menteith?  and  who  told  you  the 
lady's  name? 

Menteith.  Mr.  George,  you  was  always  a  gentle- 
man. 

Austin.  You  mean  I  wasn't  always  ?  Old  boy,  you 
are  in  the  right.  This  shall  be  a  good  change  for  both 
you  and  me.  We  have  lived  too  long  like  a  brace  of 
truants:  now  is  the  time  to  draw  about  the  fire.  How 
much  is  left  of  the  old  Hermitage? 

Menteith.  Hard  upon  thirty  dozen,  Mr.  George,  and 
not  a  bad  cork  in  the  bin. 

Austin.  And  a  mistress,  Menteith,  that's  worthy  of 
that  wine. 

Menteith.  Mr.  George,  sir,  she's  worthy  of  you. 

Austin.  Gad,  I  believe  it.     {Shakes  hands  with  him.) 

Menteith  {breaking  down).  Mr.  George,  you've  been 
a  damned  good  master  to  me,  and  I've  been  a  damned 
good  servant  to  you;  we've  been  proud  of  each  other 

^03 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

from  the  first;  but  if  you'll  excuse  my  plainness,  Mr. 
George,  I  never  liked  you  better  than  to-day. 

Austin.  Cheer  up,  old  boy,  the  best  is  yet  to  come. 
Get  out  the  tongs,  and  curl  me  like  a  bridegroom. 
{Sits  before  dressing-glass ;  Menteith  produces  curling 
irons  and  plies  them,    Austin  sings)  — 

*'  I'd  crowns  resign 
To  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill  I  ** 

Drop 


m 


Musical  Induction  :  the  "Minuet"  from  *^ Don  Giovanni.'* 

ACT  111 

The  stage  represents  Miss  Foster^s  lodging  as  in  Act  L 

SCENE  I 

Dorothy,  R.,  at  tambour;  Anthony,  C,  bestriding  chair; 
Miss  Foster,  L  C. 

Anthony.  Yes,  ma'am,  I  like  my  regiment:  we  are 
all  gentlemen,  from  old  Fred  downwards,  and  all 
of  a  good  family.  Indeed,  so  are  all  my  friends,  ex- 
cept one  tailor  sort  of  fellow,  Bosbury.  But  I'm  done 
with  him.  I  assure  you,  Aunt  Evelina,  we  are  Corin- 
thian to  the  last  degree.  I  wouldn't  shock  you  ladies 
for  the  world 

Miss  Foster.  Don't  mind  me,  my  dear;  go  on. 

Anthony.  Really,  ma'am,  you  must  pardon  me:  I 
trust  I  understand  what  topics  are  to  be  avoided  among 
females  —  And  before  my  sister,  too!  A  girl  of  her 
age! 

Dorothy.  Why,  you  dear,  silly  fellow,  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother. 

Anthony.  My  dear  Dolly,  you  do  not  understand; 
you  are  not  a  man  of  the  world.  But,  as  I  was  going 
on  to  say,  there  is  no  more  spicy  regiment  in  the 
service. 

305 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster.  I  am  not  surprised  that  it  maintains  its 
old  reputation.  You  know,  my  dear  {to  Dorothy),  it 
was  George  Austin's  regiment. 

Dorothy.  Was  it,  aunt  ? 

Anthony.  Beau  Austin?  Yes,  it  was;  and  a  pre- 
cious dust  they  make  about  him  still  —  a  parcel  of  old 
frumps!  That's  why  I  went  to  see  him.  But  he's 
quite  extinct:  he  couldn't  be  Corinthian  if  he  tried. 

Miss  Foster.  I  am  afraid  that  even  at  your  age  George 
Austin  held  a  very  different  position  from  the  distin- 
guished Anthony  Musgrave. 

Anthony.  Come,  ma'am,  I  take  that  unkindly.  Of 
course  I  know  what  you're  at:  of  course  the  old  put 
cut  no  end  of  a  dash  with  the  Duchess. 

Miss  Foster.  My  dear  child,  I  was  thinking  of  no 
such  thing;  that  was  immoral. 

Anthony.  Then  you  mean  that  affair  at  Brighton: 
when  he  cut  the  Prince  about  Perdita  Robinson. 

Miss  Foster.  No,  I  had  forgotten  it. 

Anthony.  O,  well,  1  know  —  that  duel!  But  look 
here.  Aunt  Evelina,  I  don't  think  you'd  be  much  grati- 
fied after  all  if  I  were  to  be  broke  for  killing  my  com- 
manding officer  about  a  quarrel  at  cards. 

Dorothy.  Nobody  asks  you,  Anthony,  to  imitate 
Mr.  Austin.  I  trust  you  will  set  yourself  a  better 
model.  But  you  may  choose  a  worse.  With  all  his 
faults,  and  all  his  enemies,  Mr.  Austin  is  a  pattern  gen- 
tleman: You  would  not  ask  a  man  to  be  braver,  and 
there  are  few  so  generous.  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  him 
called  in  fault  by  one  so  young.  Better  judges,  dear, 
are  better  pleased. 

Anthony.  Hey-dey!  what's  this? 
306 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster.  Why,  Dolly,  this  is  April  and  May. 
You  surprise  me. 

Dorothy.  I  am  afraid,  indeed,  madam,  that  you 
have  much  to  suffer  from  my  caprice.    {She  goes  out,  L.) 

SCENE   II 
Anthony,  Miss  Foster 

Anthony.  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  ma'am  ? 
I  don't  like  it. 

Miss  Foster.  Nothing,  child,  that  I  know.  You 
spoke  of  Mr.  Austin,  our  dear  friend,  like  a  groom; 
and  she,  like  any  lady  of  taste,  took  arms  in  his  defence. 

Anthony.  No,  ma'am,  that  won't  do.  I  know  the 
sex.  You  mark  my  words,  the  girl  has  some  con- 
founded nonsense  in  her  head,  and  wants  looking  after. 

Miss  Foster.  In  my  presence,  Anthony,  I  shall  ask 
you  to  speak  of  Dorothy  with  greater  respect.  With 
your  permission,  your  sister  and  I  will  continue  to  di- 
rect our  own  affairs.  When  we  require  the  interfer- 
ence of  so  young  and  confident  a  champion,  you  shall 
know.     (Curtsies,  kisses  her  hand,  and  goes  out,  L.) 

SCENE  III 

Anthony 

Anthony.  Upon  my  word,  I  think  Aunt  Evelina  one 
of  the  most  uncivil  old  women  in  the  world.  Nine 
weeks  ago  I  came  of  age;  and  they  still  treat  me  like  a 
boy.  I'm  a  recognised  Corinthian,  too:  take  my  liquor 
with  old  Fred,  and  go  round  with  the  Brummagem 

Bantam  and  Jack  Bosb .  .  .  O  damn  Jack  Bosbury. 

307 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

If  his  father  was  a  tailor,  he  shall  fight  me  for  his  un- 
gentlemanly  conduct.  However,  that's  all  one.  What 
I  want  is  to  make  Aunt  Evelina  understand  that  I'm 
not  the  man  to  be  put  down  by  an  old  maid  who's 
been  brought  up  in  a  work-basket,  begad!  I've  had 
nothing  but  rebuffs  all  day.  I'ts  very  remarkable. 
There  was  that  man  Austin,  to  begin  with.  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  can  stand  him.  I  hear  too  much  of  him; 
and  if  I  can  only  get  a  good  excuse  to  put  him  to  the 
door,  I  believe  it  would  give  Dorothy  and  all  of  us  a 
kind  of  a  position.  After  all,  he's  not  a  man  to  visit  in 
the  house  of  ladies :  not  when  I'm  away,  at  least.  Noth- 
ing in  it  of  course;  but  is  he  a  man  whose  visits  I  can 
sanction  ? 

SCENE  IV 
Anthony,  Barbara 

Barbara.  Please,  Mr.  Anthony,  Miss  Foster  said  I 
was  to  show  your  room. 

Anthony.  Ha!  Baby?  Now,  you  come  here.  You're 
a  girl  of  sense,  I  know. 

Barbara.  La,  Mr.  Anthony,  I  hope  I'm  nothing  of 
the  kind. 

Anthony.  Come,  come!  that's  not  the  tone  I  want: 
I'm  serious.  Does  this  man  Austin  come  much  about 
the  house  ? 

Barbara.  O  Mr.  Anthony,  for  shame!  Why  don't 
you  ask  Miss  Foster  ? 

Anthony.  Now  I  wish  you  to  understand:  I'm  the 
head  of  this  family.  It's  my  business  to  look  after  my 
sister's  reputation,  and  my  aunt's  too,  begad!    That's 

308 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

what  I'm  here  for:  I'm  their  natural  protector.  And 
what  I  want  you,  Barbara  Ridley,  to  understand  — 
you  whose  fathers  have  served  my  fathers  —  is  just 
simply  this:  if  you've  any  common  gratitude,  you're 
bound  to  help  me  in  the  work.  Now  Barbara,  you 
know  me,  and  you  know  my  Aunt  Evelina.  She's  a 
good  enough  woman;  I'm  the  first  to  say  so.  But 
who  is  she  to  take  care  of  a  young  girl  ?  She's  igno- 
rant of  the  world  to  that  degree  she  believes  in  Beau 
Austin!  Now  you  and  I,  Bab,  who  are  not  so  high 
and  dry,  see  through  and  through  him ;  we  know  that  a 
man  like  that  is  not  fit  company  for  any  inexperienced  girl. 

Barbara.  O  Mr.  Anthony,  don't  say  that.  {Weeping.) 

Anthony.  Hullo!  what's  wrong? 

Barbara.  Nothing  that  I  know  of  O  Mr.  Anthony, 
I  don't  think  there  can  be  anything. 

Anthony.  Think  ?    Don't  think  ?   What's  this  ? 

Barbara.  O  sir!  I  don't  know,  and  yet  I  don't  like 
it.  Here's  my  beautiful  necklace  all  broke  to  bits:  she 
took  it  off  my  very  neck,  and  gave  me  her  birthday 
pearls  instead ;  and  I  found  it  afterwards  on  the  table, 
^11  smashed  to  pieces ;  and  all  she  wanted  it  for  was  to 
take  and  break  it.  Why  that?  It  frightens  me,  Mr. 
Anthony,  it  frightens  me. 

Anthony  {wttb  necklace).  This?  What  has  this 
trumpery  to  do  with  us  ? 

Barbara.  He  gave  it  me:  that's  why  she  broke  it. 

Anthony.  He  ?  who  ? 

Barbara.  Mr.  Austin  did ;  and  I  do  believe  I  should 
not  have  taken  it,  Mr.  Anthony,  but  I  thought  no  harm, 
upon  my  word  of  honour.  He  was  always  here :  that 
was  six  months  ago;  and  indeed,  indeed,  I  thought 

309 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

they  were  to  marry.     How  would  I  think  else  with  a 
born  lady  like  Miss  Dorothy  ? 

Anthony.  Why,  Barbara,  God  help  us  all,  what's 
this  ?   You  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  was 

Barbara.  Here  it  is,  as  true  as  true:  they  were  going 
for  a  jaunt;  and  Miss  Foster  had  her  gout;  and  I  was 
to  go  with  them;  and  he  told  me  to  make-believe  I  was 
ill;  and  1  did;  and  1  stayed  at  home;  and  he  gave  me 
that  necklace;  and  they  went  away  together;  and,  oh 
dear!  I  wish  I'd  never  been  born. 

Anthony.  Together.?  he  and  Dolly?  Good  Lord  I 
my  sister!  And  since  then  ?  : 

Barbara.  We  haven't  seen  him  from  that  day  to  this, 
the  wicked  villain;  and,  Mr.  Anthony,  he  hasn't  so 
much  as  written  the  poor  dear  a  word. 

Anthony.  Bab,  Bab,  Bab,  this  is  a  devil  of  a  bad 
business;  this  is  a  cruel  bad  business.  Baby;  cruel  upon 
me,  cruel  upon  all  of  us;  a  family  like  mine.  I'm  a 
young  man,  Barbara,  to  have  this  delicate  affair  to  man- 
age; but,  thank  God,  I'm  Musgrave  to  the  bone.  He 
bribed  a  servant-maid,  did  he?  I  keep  his  bribe;  it's 
mine  now;  dear  bought,  by  George!  He  shall  have  it 
in  his  teeth.  Shot  Colonel  Villiers,  did  he  ?  we'll  see 
how  he  faces  Anthony  Musgrave.  You're  a  good  girl, 
Barbara;  so  far  you've  served  the  family.  You  leave 
this  to  me.  And,  hark  ye,  dry  your  eyes  and  hold 
your  tongue:    I'll  have  no  scandal  raised  by  you. 

Barbara.  I  do  hope,  sir,  you  won't  use  me  against 
Miss  Dorothy. 

Anthony.  That's  my  affair;  your  business  is  to  hold 
your  tongue.  Miss  Dorothy  has  made  her  bed  and 
must  lie  on  it.  Here's  Jack  Fenwick.    You  can  go. 

310 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

SCENE  V 
Anthony,  Fenwick 

Anthony.  Jack  Fenwick,  is  that  you?  Come  here, 
my  boy.  Jack,  you've  given  me  many  a  thrashing,  and 
I  deserved  *em;  and  I'll  not  see  you  made  a  fool  of 
now.  George  Austin  is  a  damned  villain,  and  Dorothy 
Musgrave  is  no  girl  for  you  to  marry:  God  help  me 
that  1  should  have  to  say  it. 

Fenwick.  Good  God,  who  told  you? 

Anthony.  Ay,  Jack ;  it's  hard  on  me.  Jack.  But  you'll 
stand  my  friend  in  spite  of  this,  and  you'll  take  my 
message  to  the  man  won't  you  ?  For  it's  got  to  come 
to  blood.  Jack:  there's  no  way  out  of  that.  And  per- 
haps your  poor  friend  will  fall.  Jack;  think  of  that:  like 
Villiers.     And  all  for  an  unworthy  sister. 

Fenwick.  Now,  Anthony  Musgrave,  I  give  you  fair 
warning;  see  you  take  it:  one  word  more  against  your 
sister,  and  we  quarrel. 

Anthony.  You  fet  it  slip  yourself.  Jack:  you  know 
yourself  she's  not  a  virtuous  girl. 

Fenwick.  What  do  you  know  of  virtue,  whose  whole 
boast  is  to  be  vicious  ?  How  dare  you  draw  conclu- 
sions? Dolt  and  puppy!  you  can  no  more  comprehend 
that  angel's  excellencies  than  she  can  stoop  to  believe 
in  your  vices.  And  you  talk  morality  ?  Anthony,  I'm  a 
man  who  has  been  somewhat  roughly  tried:  take  care. 

Anthony.  You  don't  seem  able  to  grasp  the  situation. 
Jack.  It's  very  remarkable;  I'm  the  girl's  natural  pro- 
tector; and  you  should  buckle-to  and  help,  like  a  friend 
of  the  family.  And  instead  of  that,  begad!  you  turn  on 
me  like  all  the  rest. 

3»» 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Fenwick.  Now  mark  me  fairly:  Mr.  Austin  follows 
at  my  heels ;  he  comes  to  offer  marriage  to  your  sister 
—  that  is  all  you  know,  and  all  you  shall  know;  and 
if  by  any  misplaced  insolence  of  yours  this  marriage 
should  miscarry,  you  have  to  answer,  not  to  Mr.  Aus- 
tin only,  but  to  me. 

Anthony.  It's  all  a  most  discreditable  business,  and 
1  don't  see  how  you  propose  to  better  it  by  cutting  my 
throat.  Of  course  if  he's  going  to  marry  her,  it's  a  dif- 
ferent thing;  but  I  don't  believe  he  is,  or  he'd  have  asked 
me.  You  think  me  a  fool  ?  Well,  see  they  marry,  or 
they'll  find  me  a  dangerous  fool. 

SCENE  VI 
To  these,  Austin,  Barbara  announcing 

Barbara.  Mr.  Austin.  {^She  shows  Austin  in,  and 
retires.) 

Austin.  You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  acknowledge, 
Mr.  Fenwick,  that  I  have  been  not  long  delayed  by  my 
devotion  to  the  Graces. 

Anthony.  So,  sir,  I  find  you  in  my  house 

Austin.  And  charmed  to  meet  you  again.  It  went 
against  my  conscience  to  separate  so  soon.  Youth,  Mr. 
Musgrave,  is  to  us  older  men  a  perpetual  refreshment. 

Anthony.  You  came  here,  sir,  I  suppose,  upon  some 
errand  ? 

Austin.  My  errand,  Mr.  Musgrave,  is  to  your  fair  sis- 
ter.    Beauty,  as  you  know,  comes  before  valour. 

Anthony.  In  my  own  house,  and  about  my  own 
sister,  I  presume  I  have  the  right  to  ask  for  something 
more  explicit. 

31a 


BEAU  AUSTIN 

Austin.  The  right,  my  dear  sir,  is  beyond  question ; 
but  it  is  one,  as  you  were  going  on  to  observe,  on 
Avhich  no  gentleman  insists. 

Fenwick.  Anthony,  my  good  fellow,  I  think  we  had 
better  go. 

Anthony.  I  have  asked  a  question. 

Austin.  Which  I  was  charmed  to  answer,  but  which, 
on  repetition,  might  begin  to  grow  distasteful. 

Anthony.  In  my  own  house 

Fenwick.  For  God's  sake,  Anthony! 

Austin.  In  your  aunt's  house,  young  gentleman,  I 
-shall  be  careful  to  refrain  from  criticism.  I  am  come 
upon  a  visit  to  a  lady:  that  visit  I  shall  pay;  when  you 
desire  (if  it  be  possible  that  you  desire  it)  to  resume 
this  singular  conversation,  select  some  fitter  place. 
Mr.  Fenwick,  this  afternoon,  may  I  present  you  to  his 
Royal  Highness  ? 

Anthony.  Why,  sir,  I  believe  you  must  have  miscon- 
-ceived  me.   I  have  no  wish  to  offend :  at  least  at  present. 

Austin.  Enough,  sir.  I  was  persuaded  I  had  heard 
amiss.     I  trust  we  shall  be  friends. 

Fenwick.  Come,  Anthony,  come:  here  is  your  sister. 
{As  Fenwick  and  Anthony  go  out,  C,  enter 
Dorothy,  L.) 

SCENE  VII 
Austin,  Dorothy 

Dorothy.  I  am  told,  Mr.  Austin,  that  you  wish  to 
•see  me. 

Austin.  Madam,  can  you  doubt  of  that  desire  f  can 
you  question  my  sincerity  ? 

313 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Dorothy.  Sir,  between  you  and  me  these  compli- 
ments are  worse  than  idle:  they  are  unkind.  Sure, 
we  are  alone! 

Austin.  I  find  you  in  an  hour  of  cruelty,  I  fear.  Yet 
you  have  condescended  to  receive  this  poor  offender; 
and  having  done  so  much,  you  will  not  refuse  to  give 
him  audience. 

Dorothy.  You  shall  have  no  cause,  sir,  to  complain 
of  me.     I  listen. 

Austin.  My  fair  friend,  I  have  sent  myself —  a  poor 
ambassador  —  to  plead  for  your  forgiveness.  I  have 
been  too  long  absent;  too  long,  I  would  fain  hope, 
madam,  for  you;  too  long  for  my  honour  and  my  love. 
I  am  no  longer,  madam,  in  my  first  youth ;  but  I  may 
say  that  I  am  not  unknown.  My  fortune,  originally 
small,  has  not  suffered  from  my  husbandry.  I  have 
excellent  health,  an  excellent  temper,  and  the  purest 
ardour  of  affection  for  your  person.  I  found  not  on 
my  merits,  but  on  your  indulgence.  Miss  Musgrave, 
will  you  honour  me  with  your  hand  in  marriage  ? 

Dorothy.  Mr.  Austin,  if  I  thought  basely  of  mar- 
riage, I  should  perhaps  accept  your  offer.  There  was 
a  time,  indeed,  when  it  would  have  made  me  proudest 
among  women.  I  was  the  more  deceived,  and  have 
to  thank  you  for  a  salutary  lesson.  You  chose  to  count 
me  as  a  cipher  in  your  rolls  of  conquest;  for  six  months 
you  left  me  to  my  fate;  and  you  come  here  to-day  — 
prompted,  I  doubt  not,  by  an  honourable  impulse  —  to 
offer  this  tardy  reparation.     No :  it  is  too  late. 

Austin.  Do  you  refuse  ? 

Dorothy.  Yours  is  the  blame:  we  are  no  longer 
equal.     You  have  robbed  me  of  the  right  to  marry  any 

314 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

one  but  you;  and  do  you  think  me,  then,  so  poor  in 
spirit  as  to  accept  a  husband  on  compulsion  ? 

Austin.  Dorothy,  you  loved  me  once. 

Dorothy.  Ay,  you  will  never  guess  how  much: 
you  will  never  live  to  understand  how  ignominious  a 
defeat  that  conquest  was.  I  loved  and  trusted  you: 
I  judged  you  by  myself;  think,  then,  of  my  humilia- 
tion, when,  at  the  touch  of  trial,  all  your  qualities 
proved  false,  and  I  beheld  you  the  slave  of  the  meanest 
vanity  —  selfish,  untrue,  base!  Think,  sir,  what  a  hum- 
bling of  my  pride  to  have  been  thus  deceived:  to  have 
taken  for  my  idol  such  a  commonplace  imposture  a& 
yourself;  to  have  loved  —  yes,  loved  —  such  a  shadow, 
such  a  mockery  of  man.  And  now  I  am  unworthy  to 
be  the  wife  of  any  gentleman;  and  you  —  look  me  in 
the  face,  Georg^ —  are  you  worthy  to  be  my  husband  ? 

Austin.  No,  Dorothy,  I  am  not.  I  was  a  vain  fool; 
I  blundered  away  the  most  precious  opportunity ;  and 
my  regret  will  be  lifelong.  Do  me  the  justice  to  accept 
this  full  confession  of  my  fault.  I  am  here  to-day  to 
own  and  to  repair  it. 

Dorothy.  Repair  it  ?    Sir,  you  condescend  too  far. 

Austin.  I  perceive  with  shame  how  grievously  I 
had  misjudged  you.  But  now,  Dorothy,  believe  me, 
my  eyes  are  opened.  I  plead  with  you,  not  as  my 
equal,  but  as  one  in  all  ways  better  than  myself  I 
admire  you,  not  in  that  trivial  sense  in  which  we  men 
are  wont  to  speak  of  women,  but  as  God's  work:  as  a 
wise  mind,  a  noble  soul,  and  a  most  generous  heart, 
from  whose  society  I  have  all  to  gain,  all  to  learn. 
Dorothy,  in  one  word,  I  love  you. 

Dorothy.  And  what,  sir,  has  wrought  this  trans- 
315 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

formation  ?  You  knew  me  of  old,  or  thought  you 
knew  me  ?  Is  it  in  six  months  of  selfish  absence  that 
your  mind  has  changed  ?  When  did  that  change  be- 
gin ?  A  week  ago?  Sure,  you  would  have  written! 
To-day  ?  Sir,  if  this  offer  be  anything  more  than  fresh 
offence,  I  have  a  right  to  be  enlightened. 

Austin.  Madam,  I  foresaw  this  question.  So  be  it: 
I  respect,  and  I  will  not  deceive  you.  But  give  me, 
first  of  all,  a  moment  for  defence.  There  are  few  men 
of  my  habits  and  position  who  would  have  done  as  I 
have  done:  sate  at  the  feet  of  a  young  boy,  accepted 
his  lessons,  gone  upon  his  errand:  fewer  still,  who 
would  thus,  at  the  crisis  of  a  love,  risk  the  whole  for- 
tune of  the  soul  —  love,  gratitude,  even  respect.  Yet 
more  than  that!  For  conceive  how  I  respect  you,  if  I, 
whose  lifelong  trade  has  been  flattery,  stand  before  you 
and  make  the  plain  confession  of  a  truth  that  must  not 
only  lower  me,  but  deeply  wound  yourself. 

Dorothy.  What  means ? 

Austin.  Young  Fenwick,  my  rival  for  your  heart,  he 
it  was  that  sent  me. 

Dorothy.  He?  O  disgrace!  He  sent  you!  That 
was  what  he  meant?  Am  I  fallen  so  low?  Am  I 
your  common  talk  among  men  ?  Did  you  dice  for  me  ? 
Did  he  kneel?  O  John,  John,  how  could  you!  And 
you,  Mr.  Austin,  whither  have  you  brought  me  down  ? 
shame  heaping  upon  shame  —  to  what  end!  oh,  to 
what  end  ? 

Austin.  Madam,  you  wound  me:  you  look  wilfully 
amiss.  Sure,  any  lady  in  the  land  might  well  be  proud 
to  be  loved  as  you  are  loved,  with  such  nobility  as  Mr. 
Fenwick's,  with  such  humility  as  mine.     I  came,  in- 

316 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

deed,  in  pity,  in  good-nature,  what  you  will.  (See, 
dearest  lady,  with  what  honesty  I  speak:  if  I  win  you, 
it  shall  be  with  the  unblemished  truth.)  All  that  is 
gone.     Pity  ?  it  is  myself  I  pity.     I  offer  you  not  love 

—  I  am  not  worthy.  I  ask,  I  beseech  of  you :  suffer 
me  to  wait  upon  you  like  a  servant,  to  serve  you  with 
my  rank,  my  name,  the  whole  devotion  of  my  life.  1 
am  a  gentleman  —  ay,  in  spite  of  my  fault  —  an  upright 
gentleman;  and  I  swear  to  you  that  you  shall  order 
your  life  and  mine  at  your  free  will.  Dorothy,  at  your 
feet,  in  remorse,  in  respect,  in  love  —  O  such  love  as  I 
have  never  felt,  such  love  as  I  derided  —  I  implore,  I 
conjure  you  to  be  mine! 

Dorothy.  Too  late!  too  late. 

Austin.  No,  no,  not  too  late :  not  too  late  for  peni- 
tence, not  too  late  for  love. 

Dorothy.  Which  do  you  propose?  that  I  should 
abuse  your  compassion,  or  reward  your  treachery  ? 
George  Austin,  I  have  been  your  mistress,  and  I  will 
never  be  your  wife. 

Austin.  Child,  dear  child,  I  have  not  told  you  all: 
there  is  worse  still:  your  brother  knows;  the  boy  as 
good  as  told  me.     Dorothy,  this  is  scandal  at  the  door 

—  O  let  that  move  you :  for  that,  if  not  for  my  sake,  for 
that,  if  not  for  love,  trust  me,  trust  me  again. 

Dorothy.  I  am  so  much  the  more  your  victim :  that 
is  all,  and  shall  that  change  my  heart  ?  The  sin  must 
have  its  wages.  This,  too,  was  done  long  ago:  when 
you  stooped  to  lie  to  me.  The  shame  is  still  mine,  the 
fault  still  yours. 

Austin.  Child,  child,  you  kill,  me :  you  will  not  under- 
stand.   Can  you  not  see  ?  the  lad  will  force  me  to  a  duel. 

3»7 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Dorothy.  And  you  will  kill  him  ?  Shame  after 
shame,  threat  upon  threat.  Marry  me,  or  you  are 
dishonoured;  marry  me,  or  your  brother  dies:  and  this 
is  man's  honour!  But  my  honour  and  my  pride 
are  different.  I  will  encounter  all  misfortune  sooner 
than  degrade  myself  by  an  unfaithful  marriage.  How 
should  I  kneel  before  the  altar,  and  vow  to  reverence 
as  my  husband  you,  you  who  deceived  me  as  my 
lover? 

Austin.  Dorothy,  you  misjudge  me  cruelly;  I  have 
deserved  it.  '  You  will  not  take  me  for  your  husband; 
why  should  I  wonder  ?  You  are  right.  I  have  indeed 
filled  your  life  with  calamity:  the  wages,  ay,  the  wages, 
of  my  sin  are  heavy  upon  you.  But  I  have  one  more 
thing  to  ask  of  your  pity;  and  O  remember,  child,  who 
it  is  that  asks  it:  a  man  guilty  in  your  sight,  void  of 
excuse,  but  old,  and  very  proud,  and  most  unused  to 
supplication.  Dorothy  Musgrave,  will  you  forgive 
George  Austin  ? 

Dorothy.  O,  George! 

Austin.  It  is  the  old  name:  that  is  all  I  ask,  and  more 
than  I  deserve.  I  shall  remember,  often  remember,  how 
and  where  it  was  bestowed  upon  me  for  the  last  time. 
I  thank  you,  Dorothy,  from  my  heart;  a  heart,  child, 
that  has  been  too  long  silent,  but  is  not  too  old,  I  thank 
Godl  not  yet  too  old  to  learn  a  lesson  and  to  accept  a 
reproof  I  will  not  keep  you  longer:  I  will  go — I  am 
so  bankrupt  in  credit  that  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  believe 
in  how  much  sorrow.  But,  Dorothy,  my  acts  will 
speak  for  me  with  more  persuasion.  If  it  be  in  my 
power,  you  shall  suffer  no  more  through  me:  I  will 
avoid  your  brother;  I  will  leave  this  place,  I  will  leave 

318 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

England,  to-morrow;  you  shall  be  no  longer  tortured 
with  the  neighbourhood  of  your  ungenerous  lover. 
X)orothy,  farewell! 

SCENE  VIII 
Dorothy;  to  whom,  Anthony,  L 

Dorothy  {on  her  knees,  and  reaching  with  her  hands.) 
George,  George!     (f/^/^r  Anthony.) 

Anthony.  Ha!  what  are  you  crying  for? 

Dorothy.  Nothing,  dear!    {Rising.) 

Anthony.  Is  Austin  going  to  marry  you  ? 

Dorothy.  I  shall  never  marry. 

Anthony.  I  thought  as  much.  You  should  have 
come  to  me. 

Dorothy.  I  know,  dear,  I  know;  but  there  was  noth- 
ing to  come  about. 

Anthony.  It's  a  lie.  You  have  disgraced  the  family. 
You  went  to  John  Fenwick:  see  what  he  has  made  of 
it!  But  I  will  have  you  righted:  it  shall  be  atoned  in 
the  man's  blood. 

Dorothy.  Anthony !    And  if  I  had  refused  him  ? 

Anthony.  You  }  refuse  George  Austin  ?  You  never 
had  the  chance. 

Dorothy.  I  have  refused  him. 

Anthony.  Dorothy,  you  lie.  You  would  shield  your 
lover;  but  this  concerns  not  you  only:  it  strikes  my 
honour  and  my  father's  honour. 

Dorothy.  I  have  refused  him  —  refused  him,  I  tell 
you  —  refused  him.  The  blame  is  mine;  are  you  so 
mad  and  wicked  that  you  will  not  see  ? 

Anthony.  I  see  this :  that  man  must  die. 
3^9 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Dorothy.  He?  never!  You  forget,  you  forget  whon» 
you  defy;  you  run  upon  your  death. 

Anthony.  Ah,  my  girl,  you  should  have  thought  of 
that  before.     It  is  too  late  now. 

Dorothy.  Anthony,  if  I  beg  you  —  Anthony,  I  have- 
tried  to  be  a  good  sister;  I  brought  you  up,  dear,  nursed 
you  when  you  were  sick,  fought  for  you,  hoped  for 
you,  loved  you  —  think  of  it,  think  of  the  dear  past, 
think  of  our  home  and  the  happy  winter  nights,  the 
castles  in  the  fire,  the  long  shining  future,  the  love  that 
was  to  forgive  and  suffer  always — O  you  will  spare, 
you  will  spare  me  this. 

Anthony.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,  Dolly:  I  will 
do  just  what  you  taught  me  —  my  duty:  that,  and 
nothing  else. 

Dorothy.  O  Anthony,  you  also,  you  to  strike  me! 
Heavens,  shall  I  kill  them  —  I  —  I,  that  love  them,  kill 
them!  Miserable,  sinful  girl!  George,  George,  thank 
God,  you  will  be  far  away !  O  go,  George,  go  at  once ! 

Anthony.  He  goes,  the  coward !  Ay,  is  this  more  of 
your  contrivance  ?  Madam,  you  make  me  blush.  But 
to-day  at  least  I  know  where  I  can  find  him.  This  af^ 
ternoon,  on  the  Pantiles,  he  must  dance  attendance  on 
the  Duke  of  York.  Already  he  must  be  there;  and  there 
he  is  at  my  mercy. 

Dorothy.  Thank  God,  you  are  deceived:  he  will  not 
fight.  He  promised  me  that;  thank  God  I  have  his 
promise  for  that. 

Anthony.  Promise!  Do  you  see  this?  (producing 
necklace)  the  thing  he  bribed  your  maid  with  ?  I  shall 
dash  it  in  his  teeth  before  the  Duke  and  before  all  Tun- 
bridge.     Promise,  you  poor  fool  ?  what  promise  holds 

320 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

against  a  blow  ?  Get  to  your  knees  and  pray  for  him; 
for,  by  the  God  above,  if  he  has  any  blood  in  his  body, 
one  of  us  shall  die  before  to-night.     {He  goes  out ) 

Dorothy.  Anthony,  Anthony!  .    .   .   O  my  God, 
George  will  kill  him. 

Music:  **  Cbefardy"  as  the  drop  falls. 

Drop. 


i^» 


Musical  Induction:  "Gavotte;"  ^^ Iphiginie en  Aulide." 

Gluck 

ACT  IV 

The  Stage  represents  the  Pantiles :  the  alleys  fronting  the  spectators 
in  parallel  lines.  y4t  the  hack,  a  stand  of  musicians,  from  which 
the  "  Gavotte  "  is  repeated  on  muted  strings.  The  music  continues 
nearly  through  Scene  I.  Visitors  walking  to  and  fro  beneath  the 
limes.    A  seat  in  front,  L. 

SCENE  I 
Miss  Foster,  Barbara,  Menteith;  Visitors 

Miss  Foster  (entering;  escorted  by  Menteith,  and  fol- 
lowed by  Barbara).  And  so,  Menteith,  here  you  are 
once  more.  And  vastly  pleased  I  am  to  see  you,  my 
good  fellow,  not  only  for  your  own  sake,  but  because 
you  harbinger  the  Beau.  (Sits,  L.;  Menteith  standing 
orver  her. ) 

Menteith.  Honoured  madam,  I  have  had  the  pleasure 
to  serve  Mr.  George  for  more  than  thirty  years.  This 
as  a  privilege — a  very  great  privilege.  I  have  beheld 
Slim  in  the  first  societies,  moving  among  the  first  rank 
of  personages;  and  none,  madam,  none  outshone  him. 

Barbara.  I  assure  you,  madam,  when  Mr.  Menteith 
took  me  to  the  play,  he  talked  so  much  of  Mr.  Austin 
Ihat  I  couldn't  hear  a  word  of  Mr.  Kean. 

322 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster.  Well,  well,  and  very  right.  That  was 
the  old  school  of  service,  Barbara,  which  you  would  do 
well  to  imitate.  This  is  a  child,  Menteith,  that  I  am 
trying  to  form. 

Menteith.  Quite  so,  madam. 

Miss  Foster.  And  are  we  soon  to  see  our  princely 
guest,  Menteith  ? 

Menteith.  His  Royal  Highness,  madam  ?  I  believe  I 
may  say  quite  so.  Mr.  George  will  receive  our  gallant 
prince  upon  the  Pantiles  {looking  at  his  watch)  in,  I 
should  say,  a  matter  of  twelve  minutes  from  now. 
Such,  madam,  is  Mr.  George's  order  of  the  day. 

Barbara.  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  I  am  sure,  but 
are  we  really  to  see  one  of  His  Majesty's  own  brothers  ? 
That  will  be  pure !  O  madam,  this  is  better  than  Carlisle. 

Miss  Foster.  The  wood-note  wild ;  a  loyal  Cumbrian, 
Menteith. 

Menteith.  Eh  ?  Quite  so,  madam. 

Miss  Foster.  When  she  has  seen  as  much  of  the 
Royal  Family  as  you,  my  good  fellow,  she  will  find  it 
vastly  less  entertaining. 

Menteith.  Yes,  madam,  indeed;  in  these  distin- 
guished circles,  life  is  but  a  slavery.  None  of  the  best 
set  would  relish  Tunbridge  without  Mr.  George;  Tun- 
bridge  and  Mr.  George  (if  you'll  excuse  my  plainness, 
madam)  are  in  a  manner  of  speaking  identified;  and 
indeed  it  was  the  Dook's  desire  alone  that  brought  us 
here. 

Barbara.  What  ?  the  Duke  ?  O  dear !  was  it  for  that  ? 

Menteith.  Though,  to  be  sure,  madam,  Mr.  George 
would  always  be  charmed  to  find  himself  {bowing) 
among  so  many  admired  members  of  his  own  set. 

323 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster.  Upon  my  word,  Menteith,  Mr.  Austin 
is  as  fortunate  in  his  servant  as  his  reputation. 

Menteith.  Quite  so,  madam.  But  let  me  observe 
that  the  opportunities  I  have  had  of  acquiring  a  know- 
ledge of  Mr.  George's  character  have  been  positively 
unrivalled.  Nobody  knows  Mr.  George  like  his  old 
attendant.  The  goodness  of  that  gentleman  —  but, 
madam,  you  will  soon  be  equally  fortunate,  if,  as  I  un- 
derstand, it  is  to  be  a  match. 

Miss  Foster.  I  hope,  Menteith,  you  are  not  taking 
leave  of  your  senses.  Is  it  possible  you  mean  my 
niece  ? 

Menteith.  Madam,  I  have  the  honour  to  congratu- 
late you.  I  put  a  second  curl  in  Mr.  George's  hair  on 
purpose. 

SCENE  II 

To  these,  Austin.  Menteith  falls  back,  and  Austin 
takes  his  place  in  front  of  Miss  Foster,  his  attitude  a 
counterpart  of  Menteith's. 

Austin.  Madam,  I  hasten  to  present  my  homage. 

Miss  Foster.  A  truce  to  compliments!  Menteith; 
your  charming  fellow  there,  has  set  me  positively  crazy. 
Dear  George  Austin,  is  it  true  ?  can  it  be  true  ? 

Austin.  Madam,  if  he  has  been  praising  your  niece 
he  has  been  well  inspired.  If  he  was  speaking,  as  I 
spoke  an  hour  ago  myself,  I  wish.  Miss  Foster,  that  he 
had  held  his  tongue.  I  have  indeed  ofifered  myself  to 
Miss  Dorothy,  and  she,  with  the  most  excellent  reason, 
has  refused  me. 

Miss  Foster.  Is  it  possible  ?  why,  my  dear  George 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Austin,  .  .  .  then  I  suppose  it  is  John  Fenwick  after 

all! 

Austin.  Not  one  of  us  is  worthy. 

Miss  Foster.  This  is  the  most  amazing  circumstance. 
You  take  my  breath  away.  My  niece  refuse  George 
Austin  ?  why,  I  give  you  my  word,  I  thought  she  had 
adored  you.  A  perfect  scandal :  it  positively  must  not 
get  abroad. 

Austin.  Madam,  for  that  young  lady  I  have  a  singular 
regard.  Judge  me  as  tenderly  as  you  can,  and  set  it 
down,  if  you  must,  to  an  old  man's  vanity  —  for,  Eve- 
lina, we  are  no  longer  in  the  heyday  of  our  youth  — 
judge  me  as  you  will :  I  should  prefer  to  have  it  known. 

Miss  Foster.  Can  you  ?  George  Austin,  you  ?  My 
youth  was  nothing;  I  was  a  failure;  but  for  you.?  no, 
George,  you  never  can,  you  never  must  be  old.  You 
are  the  triumph  of  my  generation,  George,  and  of  our 
old  friendship  too.  Think  of  my  first  dance  and  my 
first  partner.  And  to  have  this  story  —  no,  I  could  not 
bear  to  have  it  told  of  you. 

Austin.  Madam,  there  are  some  ladies  over  whom  it 
is  a  boast  to  have  prevailed ;  there  are  others  whom  it 
is  a  glory  to  have  loved.  And  I  am  so  vain,  dear  Eve- 
lina, that  even  thus  I  am  proud  to  link  my  name  with 
that  of  Dorothy  Musgrave. 

Miss  Foster.  George,  you  are  changed.  I  would 
not  know  you. 

Austin.  I  scarce  know  myself.  But  pardon  me,  dear 
friend  (taking  out  his  watch),  in  less  than  four  minutes 
our  illustrious  guest  will  descend  amongst  us;  and  I 
observe  Mr.  Fenwick,  with  whom  I  have  a  pressing 

business.     Suffer  me,  dear  Evelina ! 

335 


BEAU   AUSTIN 


SCENE  III 


To  these,  Fenwick.  Miss  Foster  remains  seated,  L 
Austin  goes  R,  to  Fenwick,  whom  he  salutes  with  great 
respedt. 

Austin.  Mr.  Fenwick,  I  have  played  and  lost.  That 
noble  lady,  justly  incensed  at  my  misconduct,  has  con- 
demned me.  Under  the  burden  of  such  a  loss,  may  I 
console  myself  with  the  esteem  of  Mr.  Fenwick  ? 

Fenwick.  She  refused  you?  Pardon  me,  sir,  but 
was  the  fault  not  yours  ? 

Austin.  Perhaps  to  my  shame,  I  am  no  novice,  Mr. 
Fenwick;  but  I  have  never  felt  nor  striven  as  to-day. 
I  went  upon  your  errand ;  but,  you  may  trust  me,  sir, 
before  I  had  done  I  found  it  was  my  own.  Until  to- 
day I  never  rightly  valued  her;  sure,  she  is  fit  to  be  a 
queen.  I  have  a  remorse  here  at  my  heart  to  which  I 
am  a  stranger.  Oh !  that  was  a  brave  life,  that  was  a 
great  heart  that  I  have  ruined. 

Fenwick.  Ay,  sir,  indeed. 

Austin.  But,  sir,  it  is  not  to  lament  the  irretriev- 
able that  I  intrude  myself  upon  your  leisure.  There  is 
something  to  be  done,  to  save,  at  least  to  spare,  that 
lady.     You  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  brother  ? 

Fenwick.  No,  sir,  he  knows  all;  and  being  both  in- 
temperate and  ignorant 

Austin.  Surely.  I  know.  I  have  to  ask  you  then 
to  find  what  friends  you  can  among  this  company; 
and  if  you  have  none,  to  make  them.  Let  everybody 
hear  the  news.  Tell  it  (if  I  may  offer  the  suggestion) 
with  humour:   how  Mr.  Austin,  somewhat  upon  the 

326 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

wane,  but  still  filled  with  sufficiency,  gloriously  pre- 
sumed and  was  most  ingloriously  set  down  by  a  young 
lady  from  the  north :  the  lady's  name  a  secret,  which 
you  will  permit  to  be  divined.  The  laugh  —  the  posi- 
tion of  the  hero  —  will  make  it  circulate;  —  you  per- 
ceive I  am  in  earnest;  —  and  in  this  way  I  believe  our 
young  friend  will  find  himself  forestalled. 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  I  would  not  have  dared  to  ask 
so  much  of  you;  I  will  go  further:  were  the  positions 
changed,  I  should  fear  to  follow  your  example. 

Austin.  Child,  child,  you  could  not  afford  it. 

SCENE   IV 

To  these,  the  Royal  Duke,  C  ;  then,  immediately,  An- 
thony, L.  Fenwick  crosses  to  Miss  Foster,  R,  Austin 
accosts  the  Duke,  C.  ,  in  dumb  show ;  the  muted  strings 
take  up  a  new  air,  Mozart's  '  *  Anglaise ' '  /  couples  pass^ 
tng  under  the  limes,  and  forming  a  group  behind  Austin 
and  the  Duke.  Anthony  in  front,  L.,  watches  Austin, 
who,  as  he  turns  from  the  Duke,  sees  him,  and  comes 
forward  with  extended  band. 

Austin.  Dear  child,  let  me  present  you  to  his  Royal 
Highness. 

Anthony  {with  necklace).  Mr.  Austin,  do  you  recog- 
nise the  bribe  you  gave  my  sister's  maid  ? 

Austin.  Hush,  sir,  hush !  you  forget  the  presence  of 
the  Duke. 

Anthony.  Mr.  Austin,  you  are  a  coward  and  a  scoun- 
drel. 

Austin.  My  child,  you  will  regret  these  words :  I  re- 
fuse your  quarrel. 

337 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Anthony.  You  do  ?  Take  that.  (He  strikes  Austin 
on  the  mouth.     At  the  moment  of  the  blow ) 

SCENE  V 

To  these,  Dorothy,  L,  U,  E,  Dorothy,  unseen  by 
Austin,  shrieks.    Sensation.    Mmic  stops.     Tableau. 

Austin  {recovering  his  composure).  Your  Royal 
Highness,  suffer  me  to  excuse  the  disrespect  of  this 
young  gentleman.  He  has  so  much  apology,  and  I 
have,  I  hope,  so  good  a  credit,  as  incline  me  to  accept 
this  blow.  But  I  must  beg  of  your  Highness,  and, 
gentlemen,  all  of  you  here  present,  to  bear  with  me 
while  I  will  explain  what  is  too  capable  of  misconstruc- 
tion. I  am  the  rejected  suitor  of  this  young  gentleman's 
sister;  of  Miss  Dorothy  Musgrave:  a  lady  whom  I 
singularly  honour  and  esteem ;  a  word  from  whom  (if 
I  could  hope  that  word)  would  fill  my  life  with  happi- 
ness. I  was  not  worthy  of  that  lady;  when  I  was  de- 
feated in  fair  field,  I  presumed  to  make  advances  through 
her  maid.  See  in  how  laughable  a  manner  fate  repaid 
me!  The  waiting-girl  derided,  the  mistress  denied, 
and  now  comes  in  this  very  ardent  champion  who  pub- 
licly insults  me.  My  vanity  is  cured;  you  will  judge  it 
right,  I  am  persuaded,  all  of  you,  that  I  should  accept 
my  proper  punishment  in  silence;  you,  my  Lord  Duke, 
to  pardon  this  young  gentleman;  and  you,  Mr.  Mus- 
grave, to  spare  me  further  provocation,  which  I  am 
determined  to  ignore. 

Dorothy  (rushing  forward,  falling  at  Avsrw*s  knees, 
and  seizing  his  hand).  George,  George,  it  was  for  me. 
My  hero!  take  me!    What  you  will! 

328 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Austin  {in  an  agony).  My  dear  creature,  remember 
that  we  are  in  public.  {Raising  her,)  Your  Royal 
Highness,  may  I  present  you  Mrs.  George  Frederick 
Austin  ?  ( The  Curtain  falls  on  a  few  bars  of  the  *  *  La^s 
of  Richmond  Hill/') 


V9 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 


S>edtcateD 

WITH    AFFECTION    AND    ESTEEM 
TO 

ANDREW   LANG 

BY  THE  SURVIVORS  OF   THE 
IVALRUS 


Savannah, 
This  27th  day  of  September,  1884. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


JOHN  Gaunt,  called  'Admiral  Guinea/  once  captain  of  the  Slaver 

y4retbusa. 
Arethusa  Gaunt,  his  Daughter. 

David  Pew,  a  Blind  Beggar,  once  Boatswain  of  the  Arethusa. 
Kit  French,  a  Privateersman. 
Mrs.  Drake,  Landlady  of  the  Admiral  Benbow  Inn. 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Barnstaple.    The  Time  is 
about  the  year  1 760.    The  action  occupies  part  of  a  day  and  night. 


NoTB. — Passages  suggested  for  omission  in  representation  are  enclosed 
in  square  brackets,  thus  [    ]. 


ACT  I 

Tlje  Stage  represents  a  room  in  Admiral  Guinea's  bouse:  fireplace, 
arm-cbair,  and  table  witb  Bible,  L,  towards  tbe  front;  door  C, 
witb  window  on  eacb  side,  tbe  window  on  tbe  R.,  practicable;  doors, 
R.  and  L,  back;  corner  cupboard,  a  brass-strapped  sea-chest  fixed 
to  the  wall  and  floor,  R.;  cutlasses,  telescopes,  sextant,  quadrant^ 
a  calendar,  and  several  maps  upon  tbe  wall;  a  ship  clock ;  three 
wooden  chairs;  a  dresser  against  wall,  R.  C;  on  the  chimney" 
piece  the  model  of  a  brig  and  several  shells.  Tbe  centre  bare  of 
furniture.  Through  the  windows  and  tbe  door,  which  is  open, 
green  trees  and  a  small  field  of  sea. 

SCENE  I 

Arethusa  is  discovered,  dusting 

Arethusa.  Ten  months  and  a  week  to-day!  Now 
for  a  new  mark.  Since  the  last,  the  sun  has  set  and 
risen  over  the  fields  and  the  pleasant  trees  at  home,  and 
on  Kit's  lone  ship  and  the  empty  sea.  Perhaps  it  blew; 
perhaps  rained;  {at  the  chart)  perhaps  he  was  far  up 
here  to  the  nor'ard,  where  the  icebergs  sail;  perhaps  at 
anchor  among  these  wild  islands  of  the  snakes  and  buc- 
caneers. O,  you  big  chart,  if  I  could  see  him  sailing 
on  you!  North  and  South  Atlantic;  such  a  weary  sight 
of  water  and  no  land;  never  an  island  for  the  poor  lad 
to  land  upon.  But  still,  God's  there.  {She  takes  down 
the  telescope  to  dust  it,)    Father's  spy-glass  again;  and 

33^ 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

my  poor  Kit  perhaps  with  such  another,  sweeping  the 
great  deep! 

SCENE   II 

Arethusa;  to  her.  Kit,  C    [He  enters  on  tiptoe,  and  she 
does  not  see  or  hear  him] 

Arethusa  {dusting  telescope).  At  sea  they  have  less 
dust  at  least:  that's  so  much  comfort. 

Kit.  Sweetheart,  ahoy  I 

Arethusa.  Kit! 

Kit.  Arethusa. 

Arethusa.  My  Kit!  Home  again —O  my  lovel  — 
home  again  to  mel 

Kit.  As  straight  as  wind  and  tide  could  carry  me! 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  my  dearest.     O  Kit  — 01  O! 

Kit.  Hey  ?  Steady,  lass :  steady,  I  say.  For  goodness' 
sake,  ease  it  off. 

Arethusa.  I  will.  Kit  — I  will.  But  you  came  so 
sudden. 

Kit.  I  thought  ten  months  of  it  about  preparation 
enough. 

Arethusa.  Ten  months  and  a  week:  you  haven't 
counted  the  days  as  I  have.  Another  day  gone,  and 
one  day  nearer  to  Kit:  that  has  been  my  almanac. 
How  brown  you  are!  how  handsome! 

Kit.  a  pity  you  can't  see  yourself!  Well,  no,  I'll 
never  be  handsome:  biown  I  maybe,  never  handsome. 
But  I'm  better  than  that,  if  the  proverb's  true;  for  I'm 
ten  hundred  thousand  fathoms  deep  in  love.  I  bring 
you  a  faithful  sailor.  What!  you  don't  think  much  of 
thai  for  a  curiosity  ?  Well,  that's  so:  you're  right;  the 
rarity  is  in  the  girl  that's  worth  it  ten  times  over.  Faith- 

536 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

ful  ?  I  couldn't  help  it  if  I  tried !  No,  sweetheart,  and  I 
fear  nothing:  I  don't  know  what  fear  is,  but  just  of 
losing  you.    {Starting.)    Lord,  that's  not  the  Admiral? 

Arethusa.  Aha,  Mr.  Dreadnought!  you  see  you  fear 
my  father. 

Kit.  That  I  do.  But,  thank  goodness,  it's  nobody. 
Kiss  me:  no,  1  won't  kiss  you:  kiss  me.  I'll  give  you 
a  present  for  that.     See! 

Arethusa.  A  wedding-ring! 

Kit.  My  mother's.     Will  you  take  it  ? 

Arethusa.  Yes,  will  1  —  and  give  myself  for  it. 

Kit.  Ah,  if  we  could  only  count  upon  your  father! 
He's  a  man  every  inch  of  him ;  but  he  can't  endure  Kit 
French. 

Arethusa.  He  hasn't  learned  to  know  you.  Kit,  as  I 
have,  nor  yet  do  you  know  him.  He  seems  hard  and 
violent;  at  heart  he  is  only  a  man  overwhelmed  with 
sorrow.  Why  else,  when  he  looks  at  me  and  does  not 
know  that  1  observe  him,  should  his  face  change,  and 
fill  with  such  tenderness,  that  I  could  weep  to  see  him  ? 
Why,  when  he  walks  in  his  sleep,  as  he  does  almost 
every  night,  his  eyes  open  and  beholding  nothing,  why 
should  he  cry  so  pitifully  on  my  mother's  name  ?  Ah, 
if  you  could  hear  him  then,  you  would  say  yourself: 
here  is  a  man  that  has  loved ;  here  is  a  man  that  will 
be  kind  to  lovers. 

Kit.  Is  that  so  ?  Ay,  it's  a  hard  thing  to  lose  your 
wife;  ay,  that  must  cut  the  heart  indeed.  But  for  all 
that,  my  lass,  your  father  is  keen  for  the  doubloons. 

Arethusa.  Right,  Kit:  and  small  blame  to  him. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  be  honest,  and  the  name  of 
that  is  thrift. 

337 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

Kit.  Well,  and  that's  my  motto.  I've  left  the  ship; 
no  more  letter  of  marque  for  me.  Good-bye  to  Kit 
French,  privateersman's  mate;  and  how-d'ye-do  to 
Christopher,  the  coasting  skipper.  I've  seen  the  very 
boat  for  me:  I've  enough  to  buy  her,  too;  and  to  fur- 
nish a  good  house,  and  keep  a  shot  in  the  locker  for 
bad  luck.  So  far,  there's  nothing  to  gainsay.  So  far 
it's  hopeful  enough ;  but  still  there's  Admiral  Guinea,  you 
know  —  and  the  plain  truth  is  that  I'm  afraid  of  him. 

Arethusa.  Admiral  Guinea  ?  Now  Kit,  if  you  are  to 
be  true  lover  of  mine,  you  shall  not  use  that  name.  His 
name  is  Captain  Gaunt.  As  for  fearing  him,  Kit  French, 
you're  not  the  man  for  me,  if  you  fear  anything  but  sin. 
He's  a  stern  man  because  he's  in  the  right. 

Kit.  He  is  a  man  of  God ;  I  am  what  he  calls  a  child 
of  perdition.  I  was  a  privateersman  —  serving  my 
country,  I  say ;  but  he  calls  it  pirate.  He  is  thrifty  and 
sober;  he  has  a  treasure,  they  say,  and  it  lies  so  near 
his  heart  that  he  tumbles  up  in  his  sleep  to  stand  watch 
over  it.  What  has  a  harum-scarum  dog  like  me  to  ex- 
pect from  a  man  like  him  ?  He  won't  see  I'm  starving 
for  a  chance  to  mend;  *'Mend,"  he'll  say;  •*ril  be 
shot  if  you  mend  at  the  expense  of  my  daughter; "  and 
the  worst  of  it  is,  you  see,  he'll  be  right. 

Arethusa.  Kit,  if  you  dare  to  say  that  faint-hearted 
word  again,  I'll  take  my  ring  off.  What  are  we  here 
for  but  to  grow  better  or  grow  worse  ?  Do  you  think 
Arethusa  French  will  be  the  same  as  Arethusa  Gaunt  ? 

Kit.  I  don't  want  her  better. 

Arethusa.  Ah,  but  she  shall  be! 

Kit.  Hark,  here  he  is !  By  George,  it's  neck  or  noth- 
ing now.     Stand  by  to  back  me  up. 

338 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

SCENE   III 
To  these,  Gaunt,  C 

Kit  {with  Arethusa's  hand).  Captain  Gaunt,  I  have 
come  to  ask  you  for  your  daughter. 

Gaunt.  Hum.     {He  sits  in  his  chair,  L.) 

Kit.  I  love  her,  and  she  loves  me,  sir.  I've  left  the 
privateering.  I've  enough  to  set  me  up  and  buy  a  tidy 
sloop — Jack  Lee's;  you  know^  the  boat.  Captain; 
clinker  built,  not  four  years  old,  eighty  tons  burthen, 
steers  like  a  child.  I've  put  my  mother's  ring  on 
Arethusa's  finger;  and  if  you'll  give  us  your  blessing, 
I'll  engage  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  make  her  a 
good  husband. 

Gaunt.  In  whose  strength,  Christopher  French  ? 

Kit.  In  the  strength  of  my  good,  honest  love  for 
her:  as  you  did  for  her  mother,  and  my  father  for 
mine.  And  you  know.  Captain,  a  man  can't  command 
the  wind;  but  (excuse  me,  sir)  he  can  always  lie  the 
best  course  possible,  and  that's  what  I'll  do,  so  God 
help  me. 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  you  at  least  are  the  child  of  many 
prayers;  your  eyes  have  been  unsealed;  and  to  you 
the  world  stands  naked,  a  morning  watch  for  duration, 
a  thing  spun  of  cobwebs  for  solidity.  In  the  presence 
of  an  angry  God,  I  ask  you:  have  you  heard  this  man  ? 

Arethusa.  Father,  I  know  Kit,  and  I  love  him. 

Gaunt.  I  say  it  solemnly,  this  is  no  Christian  union. 
To  you,  Christopher  French,  I  will  speak  nothing  of 
eternal  truths :  I  will  speak  to  you  the  language  of  this 
world.     You  have  been  trained  among  sinners  who 

339 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

gloried  in  their  sin :  in  your  whole  life  you  never  saved 
one  farthing;  and  now,  when  your  pockets  are  full, 
you  think  you  can  begin,  poor  dupe,  in  your  own 
strength.  You  are  a  roysterer,  a  jovial  companion; 
you  mean  no  harm  —  you  are  nobody's  enemy  but 
your  own.  No  doubt  you  tell  this  girl  of  mine,  and  na 
doubt  you  tell  yourself,  that  you  can  change.  Chris- 
topher, speaking  under  correction,  I  defy  you!  You 
ask  me  for  this  child  of  many  supplications,  for  this 
brand  plucked  from  the  burning:  I  look  at  you;  I  read 
you  through  and  through ;  and  I  tell  you  —  no !  {Strik- 
ing table  with  his  fist.) 

Kit.  Captain  Gaunt,  if  you  mean  that  I  am  not 
worthy  of  her,  I'm  the  first  to  say  so.  But,  if  you'll 
excuse  me,  sir,  I'm  a  young  man,  and  young  men  are 
no  better'n  they  ought  to  be;  it's  known;  they're  all 
like  that;  and  what's  their  chance?  To  be  married  to 
a  girl  like  this !  And  would  you  refuse  it  to  me  ?  Why, 
sir,  you  yourself,  when  you  came  courting,  you  were 
young  and  rough;  and  yet  I'll  make  bold  to  say  that 
Mrs.  Gaunt  was  a  happy  woman,  and  the  saving  of 
yourself  into  the  bargain.  Well,  now,  Captain  Gaunt, 
will  you  deny  another  man,  and  that  man  a  sailor,  the 
very  salvation  that  you  had  yourself? 

Gaunt.  Salvation,  Christopher  French,  is  from  above. 

Kit.  Well,  sir,  that  is  so;  but  there's  means,  too; 
and  what  means  so  strong  as  the  wife  a  man  has  to 
strive  and  toil  for,  and  that  bears  the  punishment 
whenever  he  goes  wrong  ?  Now,  sir,  I've  spoke  with 
your  old  shipmates  in  the  Guinea  trade.  Hard  as  nails, 
they  said,  and  true  as  the  compass:  as  rough  as  a  slaver, 
but  as  just  as  a  judge.  Well,  sir,  you  hear  me  plead :  I 
ask  you  for  my  chance;  don't  you  deny  it  to  me. 

340 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Gaunt.  You  speak  of  me  ?  In  the  true  balances  we 
both  weigh  nothing.  But  two  things  I  know:  the 
depth  of  iniquity,  how  foul  it  is ;  and  the  agony  with 
which  a  man  repents.  Not  until  seven  devils  were 
cast  out  of  me  did  I  awake;  each  rent  me  as  it  passed. 
Ay,  that  was  repentance.  Christopher,  Christopher, 
you  have  sailed  before  the  wind  since  first  you  weighed 
your  anchor,  and  now  you  think  to  sail  upon  a  bow- 
line ?  You  do  not  know  your  ship,  young  man :  you 
will  go  to  le'ward  like  a  sheet  of  paper;  I  tell  you  so 
that  know  —  I  tell  you  so  that  have  tried,  and  failed, 
-and  wrestled  in  the  sweat  of  prayer,  and  at  last,  at  last, 
have  tasted  grace.  But,  meanwhile,  no  flesh  and  blood 
of  mine  shall  lie  at  the  mercy  of  such  a  wretch  as  I  was 
then,  or  as  you  are  this  day.  I  could  not  own  the  deed 
before  the  face  of  heaven  if  I  sanctioned  this  unequal 
yoke.  Arethusa,  pluck  off  that  ring  from  off  your  fin- 
ger.    Christopher  French,  take  it,  and  go  hence. 

Kit.  Arethusa,  what  do  you  say  ? 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  you  know  my  heart.  But  he  is 
alone,  and  I  am  his  only  comfort;  and  I  owe  all  to 
him;  and  shall  I  not  obey  my  father?  But,  Kit,  if  you 
will  let  me,  I  will  keep  your  ring.  Go,  Kit;  go,  and 
prove  to  my  father  that  he  was  mistaken;  go  and  win 
me.  And  O,  Kit,  if  ever  you  should  weary,  come  to 
me  —  no,  do  not  come!  but  send  a  word  —  and  I  shall 
know  all,  and  you  shall  have  your  ring.  (Gaunt  opens 
his  Bible  and  begins  to  read.) 

Kit.  Don't  say  that,  don't  say  such  things  to  me;  I 
sink  or  swim  with  you.  {To  Gaunt.)  Old  man, 
you've  struck  me  hard;  give  me  a  good  word  to  go 
with.  Name  your  time;  I'll  stand  the  test.  Give  me 
a  spark  of  hope,  and  I'll  fight  through  for  it.     Say  just 

34« 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

this  —  "Prove  I  was  mistaken,"  and  by  George,  I'll 
prove  it. 

Gaunt  {looking  up).  I  make  no  such  compacts.  Go, 
and  swear  not  at  all. 

Arethusa.  Go,  Kit  I    I  keep  the  ring. 

SCENE  IV 
Arethusa,  Gaunt 

Arethusa.  Father,  what  have  we  done  that  you 
should  be  so  cruel  ? 

Gaunt  (laying  down  Bible,  and  rising).  Do  you  call 
me  cruel  ?  You  speak  after  the  flesh.  I  have  done  you 
this  day  a  service  that  you  will  live  to  bless  me  for  upon 
your  knees. 

Arethusa.  He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him:  you  can 
never  alter  that;  do  what  you  will,  father,  that  can 
never  change.  I  love  him,  I  believe  in  him,  I  will  be 
true  to  him. 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  you  are  the  sole  thing  death  has 
left  me  on  this  earth ;  and  I  must  watch  over  your  car- 
nal happiness  and  your  eternal  weal.  You  do  not  know 
what  this  implies  to  me.  Your  mother  —  my  Hester  — 
tongue  cannot  tell,  nor  heart  conceive  the  pangs  she 
suffered.  If  it  lies  in  me,  your  life  shall  not  be  lost  on 
that  same  reef  of  an  ungodly  husband.     (Goes  out,  C.) 

SCENE   V 

Arethusa 

Arethusa.  I  thought  the  time  dragged  long  and 
weary  when  I  knew  that  Kit  was  homeward  bound, 

342 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

all  the  white  sails  a-blowing  out  towards  England,  and 
my  Kit's  face  turned  this  way  ?  {She  begins  to  dust,) 
Sure,  if  my  mother  were  here,  she  would  understand 
and  help  us ;  she  would  understand  a  young  maid's  heart, 
though  her  own  had  never  an  ache ;  and  she  would  love 
my  Kit.  {Putting  back  the  telescope.)  To  think  she 
died:  husband  and  child  —  and  so  much  love  —  she 
was  taken  from  them  all.  Ah,  there  is  no  parting  but 
the  grave!  And  Kit  and  I  both  live,  and  both  love  each 
other;  and  here  am  I  cast  down  ?  O,  Arethusa,  shame! 
And  your  love  home  from  the  deep  seas,  and  loving  you 
still;  and  the  sun  shining;  andthe  world  all  full  of  hope? 
O,  hope,  you're  a  good  word! 

SCENE   VJ 
Arethusa  ;  to  her.  Pew 
Pew  (singing  without)  — 

* '  Time  for  us  to  go ! 
Time  for  us  to  go! 
And  we'll  keep  the  brig  three  p'ints  away, 
For  it's  time  for  us  to  go." 

Arethusa.  Who  comes  here  ?  a  seaman  by  his  song, 
and  father  out!  {She  tries  the  air.)  *'Time  for  us  to 
go!  "  It  sounds  a  wild  kind  of  song.  {Tap-tap  ;  Pew 
passes  the  window.)     O,  what  a  face  —  and  blind! 

Pew  {entering).  Kind  Christian  friends,  take  pity  on 
a  poor  blind  mariner,  as  lost  his  precious  sight  in  the 
defence  of  his  native  country,  England,  and  God  bless 
King  George! 

Arethusa.  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sailor  ? 

343 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  Good  Christian  lady,  help  a  poor  blind  mariner 
to  a  mouthful  of  meat.  I've  served  His  Majesty  in  every 
quarter  of  the  globe;  I've  spoke  with  'Awke  and  glori- 
ous Anson,  as  I  might  with  you;  and  I've  tramped  it 
all  night  long,  upon  my  sinful  feet,  and  with  a  empty 
belly. 

Arethusa.  You  shall  not  ask  bread  and  be  denied  by 
a  sailor's  daughter  and  a  sailor's  sweetheart;  and  when 
my  father  returns  he  shall  give  you  something  to  set 
you  on  your  road. 

Pew.  Kind  and  lovely  lady,  do  you  tell  me  that  you 
are  in  a  manner  of  speaking  alone  ?  or  do  my  ears  de- 
ceive a  poor  blind  seaman  ? 

Arethusa.  I  live  here  with  my  father,  and  my  father 
is  abroad. 

Pew.  Dear,  beautiful,  Christian  lady,  tell  a  poor  blind 
man  your  honoured  name,  that  he  may  remember  it  in 
his  poor  blind  prayers. 

Arethusa.  Sailor,  I  am  Arethusa  Gaunt. 

Pew.  Sweet  lady,  answer  a  poor  blind  man  one  other 
question :  are  you  in  a  manner  of  speaking  related  to 
Cap'n  John  Gaunt  ?  Cap'n  John  as  in  the  ebony  trade 
were  known  as  Admiral  Guinea  ? 

Arethusa.  Captain  John  Gaunt  is  my  father. 

Pew  {dropping  the  blind  man's  whine).  Lord,  think 
of  that  now!  They  told  me  this  was  where  he  lived, 
iind  so  it  is.  And  here's  old  Pew,  old  David  Pew,  as 
was  the  Admiral's  own  bo'sun,  colloguing  in  his  old 
commander's  parlour,  with  his  old  commander's  gal 
{seizes  Arethusa).  Ah,  and  a  bouncer  you  are,  and  no 
^mistake. 

Arethusa.  Let  me  go!  how  dare  you? 

344 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  Lord  love  you,  don't  you  struggle,  now,  don't 
you.  (She  escapes  into  front  R.  corner,  where  he  keeps 
her  imprisoned.)  Ah,  well,  we'll  get  you  again,  my 
lovely  woman.  What  a  arm  you've  got  —  great  god 
of  love  —  and  a  face  like  a  peach!  I'm  a  judge,  I  am. 
{She  tries  to  escape;  he  stops  her.)  No,  you  don't;  O, 
I  can  hear  a  flea  jump !  [But  it's  here  where  I  miss  my 
deadlights.  Poor  old  Pew;  him  as  the  ladies  always 
would  have  for  their  fancy  man  and  take  no  denial; 
here  you  are  with  your  commander's  daughter  close 
'aboard,  and  you  can't  so  much  as  guess  the  colour  of 
her  lovely  eyes.     (Singing)  — 

'*  Be  they  black  like  ebony, 
Or  be  they  blue  like  to  the  sky." 

Black  like  the  Admiral's?  or  blue  like  his  poor  dear 
wife's  ?  Ah,  I  was  fond  of  that  there  woman,  I  was : 
the  Admiral  was  jealous  of  me.]  Arethusa,  my  dear, 
—  my  heart,  what  a  'and  and  arm  you  have  got;  I'll 
dream  o'  that  'and  and  arm,  I  will!  —  but  as  I  was 
a-saying,  does  the  Admiral  ever  in  a  manner  of  speak- 
ing refer  to  his  old  bo'sun  David  Pew  ?  him  as  he  fell 
out  with  about  the  black  woman  at  Lagos,  and  almost 
slashed  the  shoulder  off  of  him  one  morning  before 
breakfast  ? 

Arethusa.  You  leave  this  house. 

Pew.  Hey  ?  (he  closes  and  seizes  her  again.)  Don't 
you  fight,  my  lovely  one:  now  don't  make  old  blind 
Pew  forget  his  manners  before  a  female.  What!  you 
will  ?  Stop  that,  or  I'll  have  the  arm  right  out  of  your 
body.     (He  gives  her  arm  a  wrench,) 

Arethusa.  O!  help,  help! 
345 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  Stash  your  patter,  damn  you.  (Arethusa  gives 
in.)  Ah,  I  thought  it:  Pew's  way,  Pew's  way.  Now, 
look  you  here,  my  lovely  woman.  If  you  sling  in  an- 
other word  that  isn't  in  answer  to  my  questions,  I'll 
pull  your  j'ints  out  one  by  one.  Where's  the  Com- 
mander? 

Arethusa.  I  have  said :  he  is  abroad. 

Pew.  When's  he  coming  aboard  again  ? 

Arethusa.  At  any  moment. 

Pew.  Does  he  keep  his  strength  ? 

Arethusa.  You'll  see  when  he  returns.  {He  wrenches 
her  arm  again.)    Ah ! 

Pew.  Is  he  still  on  piety  ? 

Arethusa.  O,  he  is  a  Christian  man  I 

Pew.  a  Christian  man,  is  he  ?  Where  does  he  keep 
his  rum  ? 

Arethusa.  Nay,  you  shall  steal  nothing  by  my  help. 

Pew.  No  more  I  shall  {becoming  amorous).  You're  a 
lovely  woman,  that's  what  you  are;  how  would  you 
like  old  Pew  for  a  sweetheart,  hey  ?  He's  blind,  is  Pew, 
but  strong  as  a  lion;  and  the  sex  is  his  'ole  delight. 
Ah,  them  beautiful,  beautiful  lips!   A  kissl   Come! 

Arethusa.  Leave  go,  leave  go  1 

Pew.  Hey  ?  you  would  ? 

Arethusa.  Ah  1  {She  thrusts  him  down,  and  escapes 
to  door,  R.) 

SCENE  VII 

Pew  {picking  himself  up).  Ah,  she's  a  bouncer,  she 
is!  Where's  my  stick?  That's  the  sort  of  female  for 
David  Pew.    Didn't  she  fight  ?  and  didn't  she  struggle  ? 

346 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

and  shouldn't  I  like  to  twist  her  lovely  neck  for  her  ? 
Pew's  way  with  'em  all:  the  prettier  they  was,  the 
uglier  he  were  to  'em.  Pew's  way:  a  way  he  had  with 
him;  and  a  damned  good  way  too.  {Listens  at  L. 
door.)  That's  her  bedroom,  I  reckon;  and  she's  double- 
locked  herself  in.  Good  again:  it's  a  crying  mercy  the 
Admiral  didn't  come  in.  But  you  always  loses  your 
'ed,  Pew,  with  a  female:  that's  what  charms  'em.  Now 
for  business.  The  front  door.  No  bar;  on'y  a  big  lock 
{trying  keys  from  his  pocket).  Key  one;  no  go.  Key 
two;  no  go.  Key  three;  ah,  that  does  it.  Ah!  {feeling 
key)  him  with  the  three  wards  and  the  little  'un:  good 
again!  Now  if  I  could  only  find  a  mate  in  this  rotten 
country  'amlick:  one  to  be  eyes  to  me;  I  can  steer,  but 
I  can't  conn  myself,  worse  luck!  If  I  could  only  find  a 
mate!  And  to-night,  about  three  bells  in  the  middle 
watch,  old  Pew  will  take  a  little  cruise,  and  lay  aboard 
his  ancient  friend  the  Admiral;  or,  barring  that,  the 
Admiral's  old  sea-chest — the  chest  he  kept  the  shiners 
in  aboard  the  brig.  Where  is  it,  I  wonder  ?  in  his  berth, 
or  in  the  cabin  here  ?  It's  big  enough,  and  the  brass 
bands  is  plain  to  feel  by.  {Searching  about  with  stick.) 
Dresser —  chair  —  {knocking  his  head  on  the  cupboard). 
Ah! — O,  corner  cupboard.  Admiral's  chair  —  Admiral's 
table  —  Admiral's  —  hey!  what's  this.?  —  a  book  — 
sheepskin  —  smells  like  a  'oly  Bible.  Chair  {his  stick 
just  avoids  the  chest).  No  sea-chest.  I  must  have  a 
mate  to  see  for  me,  to  see  for  old  Pew :  him  as  had  eyes 
like  a  eagle!  Meanwhile,  rum.  Corner  cupboard,  of 
course  {tap-tapping).  Rum  —  rum  —  rum.  Hey?  {He 
listens.)  Footsteps.  Is  it  the  Admiral?  {With  the  whine.) 

Kind  Christian  friends 

347 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

SCENE  VIII 
Pew  ;  to  him  Gaunt 

Gaunt.  What  brings  you  here  ? 

Pew.  Cap'n,  do  my  ears  deceive  me  ?  or  is  this  my 
old  commander? 

Gaunt.  My  name  is  John  Gaunt.  Who  are  you,  my 
man,  and  what's  your  business  ? 

Pew.  Here's  the  facks,  so  help  me.  A  lovely  female 
in  this  house,  was  Christian  enough  to  pity  the  poor 
blind;  and  lo  and  be'old!  who  should  she  turn  out  to 
be  but  my  old  commander's  daughter !  ' '  My  dear, "  says 
I  to  her,  "  I  was  the  Admiral's  own  particular  bo'sun." — 
**  La,  sailor,"  she  says  to  me,  "  how  glad  he'll  be  to  see 
you!" — '*Ah,"  says  I,  **  won't  he  just  —  that's  all."  — 
*'ril  go  and  fetch  him,"  she  says;  "  you  make  yourself 
at'ome."  And  off  she  went;  and,  Commander,  here  I  am. 

Gaunt  {sitting  down).    Well  ? 

Pew.  Well,  Cap'n  ? 

Gaunt.  What  do  you  want  ? 

Pew.  Well,  Admiral,  in  a  general  way,  what  I  want 
in  a  manner  of  speaking  is  money  and  rum.    {A  pame.) 

Gaunt.    David  Pew,  I  have  known  you  a  long  time. 

Pew.  And  so  you  have;  aboard  the  old  Arethma ; 
and  you  don't  seem  that  cheered  up  as  I'd  looked  for, 
with  an  old  shipmate  dropping  in,  one  as  has  been 
seeking  you  two  years  and  more  —  and  blind  at  that. 
Don't  you  remember  the  old  chantie  ?  — 

"Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go." 
348 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

What  a  note  you  had  to  sing,  what  a  swaller  for  a 
pannikin  of  rum,  and  what  a  fist  for  the  shiners!  Ah, 
Cap'n,  they  didn't  call  you  Admiral  Guinea  for  nothing. 
I  can  see  that  old  sea-chest  of  yours  —  her  with  the 
brass  bands,  where  you  kept  your  gold  dust  and  doub- 
loons: you  know!  —  I  can  see  her  as  well  this  minute 
as  though  you  and  me  was  still  at  it  playing  put  on  the 
lid  of  her  ...  .  You  don't  say  nothing,  Cap'n?  .  .  . 
Well,  here  it  is:  I  want  money  and  I  want  rum.  You 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  want  rum,  you  don't:  it  gets 
to  that  p'int,  that  you  would  kill  a  'ole  ship's  company 
for  just  one  guttle  of  it.  What  ?  Admiral  Guinea,  my 
old  Commander,  go  back  on  poor  old  Pew  ?  and  him 
high  and  dry  ?  [Not  you!  When  we  had  words  over 
the  negro  lass  at  Lagos,  what  did  you  do  ?  fair  dealings 
was  your  word:  fair  as  between  man  and  man;  and 
we  had  it  out  with  p'int  and  edge  on  Lagos  sands. 
And  you're  not  going  back  on  your  word  to  me,  now 
I'm  old  and  blind  ?  No,  no !  belay  that,  I  say.  Give 
me  the  old  motto :  Fair  dealings,  as  between  man  and 
man.] 

Gaunt.  David  Pew,  it  were  better  for  you  that  you 
you  were  sunk  in  fifty  fathom.  I  know  your  life;  and 
first  and  last,  it  is  one  broadside  of  wickedness.  You 
were  a  porter  in  a  school,  and  beat  a  boy  to  death ;  you 
ran  for  it,  turned  slaver,  and  shipped  with  me,  a  green 
hand.  Ay,  that  was  the  craft  for  you:  that  was  the 
right  craft,  and  I  was  the  right  captain ;  there  was  none 
worse  that  sailed  to  Guinea.  Well,  what  came  of  that  ? 
In  five  years'  time  you  made  yourself  the  terror  and 
abhorrence  of  your  messmates.  The  worst  hands  de- 
tested you;  your  captain  —  that  was  me,  John  Gaunt, 

349 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

the  chief  of  sinners  —  cast  you  out  for  a  Jonah.  [Who 
was  it  stabbed  the  Portuguese  and  made  off  inland  with 
his  miserable  wife  ?  Who,  raging  drunk  on  rum, 
clapped  fire  to  the  barracoons  and  burned  the  poor 
soulless  creatures  in  their  chains  ?j  Ay,  you  were  a 
scandal  to  the  Guinea  coast,  from  Lagos  down  to  Cala- 
bar ?  and  when  at  last  I  sent  you  ashore,  a  marooned 
man  —  your  shipmates,  devils  as  they  were,  cheering 
and  rejoicing  to  be  quit  of  you — by  heaven,  it  was  a 
ton's  weight  off  the  brig! 

Pew.  Cap'n  Gaunt,  Cap'n  Gaunt,  these  are  ugly 
words. 

Gaunt.  What  next  .^  You  shipped  with  Flint  the 
Pirate.  What  you  did  then  I  know  not;  the  deep  seas 
have  kept  the  secret:  kept  it,  ay,  and  will  keep  against 
the  Great  Day.  God  smote  you  with  blindness,  but 
you  heeded  not  the  sign.  That  was  His  last  mercy; 
look  for  no  more.  To  your  knees,  man,  and  repent. 
Pray  for  a  new  heart;  flush  out  your  sins  with  tears; 
flee  while  you  may  from  the  terrors  of  the  wrath  to 
come. 

Pew.  Now,  I  want  this  clear:  Do  I  understand  that 
you're  going  back  on  me,  and  you'll  see  me  damned 
first  ? 

Gaunt.  Of  me  you  shall  have  neither  money  nor 
strong  drink:  not  a  guinea  to  spend  in  riot;  not  a  drop 
to  fire  your  heart  with  devilry. 

Pew.  Cap'n,  do  you  think  it  wise  to  quarrel  with 
me?  I  put  it  to  you  now,  Cap'n,  fairly  as  between 
man  and  man  —  do  you  think  it  wise? 

Gaunt.  I  fear  nothing.  My  feet  are  on  the  Rock. 
Begone !    {He  opens  the  Bible  and  begins  to  read. ) 

350 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew  (after  a  pause).  Well,  Cap'n,  you  know  best, 
no  doubt;  and  David  Pew's  about  the  last  man,  though 
I  says  it,  to  up  and  thwart  an  old  Commander.  You've 
been  'ard  on  David  Pew,  Cap'n :  'ard  on  the  poor  blind ; 
but  you'll  live  to  regret  it  —  ah,  my  Christian  friend, 
you'll  live  to  eat  them  words  up.  But  there's  no  malice 
here:  that  ain't  Pew's  way;  here's  a  sailor's  hand  upon 
it.  .  .  .  You  don't  say  nothing?  (Gaunt  turns  a 
page.)  Ah,  reading,  was  you?  Reading,  by  thunderl 
Well,  here's  my  respecks  {singing)  — 

"Time  for  us  to  go. 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
When  the  money's  out,  and  the  liquor's  done, 
Why,  it's  time  for  us  to  go." 

{He  goes  tapping  up  to  door,  turns  on  the  threshold, 
and  listens.  Gaunt  turns  a  page.  Pew,  with  a  grim-' 
ace,  strikes  his  hand  upon  the  pocket  with  the  keys,  and 
goes.) 

Drop. 


355 


ACT  II 

The  Stage  represents  the  parlour  of  the  **  Admiral  Benhow"  inn. 
Fire-place,  R.,  with  high-backed  settles  on  each  side;  in  front  ofthesey 
and  facing  the  audience,  R.,  a  small  table  laid  with  a  cloth.  Tables  ^ 
L.,  with  glasses,  pipes,  etc.  Broadside  ballads  on  the  wall.  Outer 
door  of  inn,  with  half-door  in  L.,  corner  back;  door,  R.,  beyond 
the  fire-place ;  window  with  red  half-curtains;  spittoons;  candles 
on  both  the  front  tables;  night  without. 

SCENE  I 

Pew;  afterwards  IAks.  Drake,  out  and  in 

Pew  {entering).  Kind  Christian  friends {listening; 

then  dropping  the  whine).  Hey?  nobody!  Hey?  A 
grog-shop  not  two  cable-lengths  from  the  Admiral's 
back-door,  and  the  Admiral  not  there  ?  I  never  knew 
a  seaman  brought  so  low:  he  ain't  but  the  bones  of  the 
man  he  used  to  be.  Bear  away  for  the  New  Jerusalem, 
and  this  is  what  you  run  aground  on,  is  it?  Good 
again ;  but  it  ain't  Pew's  way ;  Pew's  way  is  rum.  — 
Sanded  floor.  Rum  is  his  word,  and  rum  his  motion. 
—  Settle  —  chimbley  —  settle  again  —  spittoon  —  table 
rigged  for  supper.  Table  —  glass.  {Drinks  heeltap.) 
Brandy  and  water;  and  not  enough  of  it  to  wet  your 
eye;  damn  all  greediness,  I  say.  Pot  {drinks)^  small 
beer  — a  drink  that  I  ab'or  like  bilge!    What  I  want  is 

35a 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

rum.  {CaUtng,  and  rapping  with  stick  on  tabte.) 
Halloa,  there!     House,  ahoy! 

Mrs.  Drake  {without).     Coming,  sir,  coming.     {She 

enters,  R.)    What  can  I  do }    {Seeing  Pew.)    Well 

I  never  did !     Now,  beggar-man,  what's  for  you  ? 

[Pew.  Rum,  ma'am,  rum;  and  a  bit  o'  supper. 

Mrs.  Drake.  And  a  bed  to  follow,  I  shouldn't  won- 
der! 

Pew.  And  a  bed  to  follow:  if  you  please.] 

Mrs.  Drake.  This  is  the  ''Admiral  Benbow/'  a  re- 
spectable house,  and  receives  none  but  decent  company; 
and  I'll  ask  you  to  go  somewhere  else,  for  I  don't  like 
the  looks  of  you. 

Pew.  Turn  me  away.^  Why,  Lord  love  you,  I'm 
David  Pew  — old  David  Pew  —  him  as  was  Benbow's 
own  particular  cox'n.  You  wouldn't  turn  away  old 
Pew  from  the  sign  of  his  late  commander's  'ed  ?  Ah, 
my  British  female,  you'd  have  used  me  different  if 
you'd  seen  me  in  the  fight!  [There  laid  old  Benbow, 
both  his  legs  shot  off,  in  a  basket,  and  the  blessed  spy- 
glass at  his  eye  to  that  same  hour:  a  picter,  ma'am,  of 
naval  daring:  when  a  round  shot  come,  and  took  and 
knocked  a  bucketful  of  shivers  right  into  my  poor  day- 
lights. ''  Damme,"  says  the  Admiral,  **is  that  old  Pew, 
my  old  Pew.?"  he  says.  —  '*  It's  old  Pew,  sir,"  says  the 
first  lootenant,  **  worse  luck,"  he  says.  —  **Then 
damme,"  says  Admiral  Benbow,  "if  that's  how  they 
serve  a  lion-'arted  seaman,  damme  if  I  care  to  live,"  he 
says;  and,  ma'am,  he  laid  down  his  spy-glass.] 

Mrs.  Drake.  Blind  man,  I  don't  fancy  you,  and  that's 
the  truth;  and  I'll  thank  you  to  take  yourself  off. 

Pew.  Thirty  years  have  I  fought  for  country  and 
353 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

king,  and  now  in  my  blind  old  age  I'm  to  be  sent 
packing  from  a  measly  public  'ouse  ?  Mark  ye,  ma'am, 
if  I  go,  you  take  the  consequences.  Is  this  a  inn  ?  Or 
haint  it?  If  it  is  a  inn,  then  by  act  of  parleyment,  I'm 
free  to  sling  my  'ammick.  Don't  you  forget:  this  is  a 
act  of  parleyment  job,  this  is.     You  look  out. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Why,  what's  to  do  with  the  man  and 
his  acts  of  parliament  ?  I  don't  want  to  fly  in  the  face 
of  an  act  of  parliament,  not  I.  If  what  you  say  is 
true 

Pew.  True  ?  If  there's  anything  truer  than  a  act  of 
parleyment  —  Ah!  you  ask  the  beak.  True?  I've  that 
in  my  'art  as  makes  me  wish  it  wasn't. 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  don't  like  to  risk  it.  I  don't  like  your 
looks,  and  you're  more  sea-lawyer  than  seaman  to  my 
mind.  But  I'll  tell  you  what:  if  you  can  pay,  you  can 
stay.     So  there. 

Pew.  No  chink,  no  drink  ?  That's  your  motto,  is  it  ? 
Well,  that's  sense.  Now,  look  here,  ma'am,  I  ain't 
beautiful  like  you;  but  I'm  good,  and  I'll  give  you  war- 
rant for  it.  Get  me  a  noggin  of  rum,  and  suthin'  to 
scoff,  and  a  penny  pipe,  and  a  half-a-foot  of  baccy ;  and 
there's  a  guinea  for  the  reckoning.  There's  plenty  more 
in  the  locker;  so  bear  a  hand,  and  be  smart.  I  don't 
like  waiting;  it  ain't  my  way.  {Exit  Mrs.  Drake,  R. 
Pew  sits  at  the  table,  R.  The  settle  conceals  him  from 
all  the  upper  part  of  the  stage.) 

Mrs.  Drake  [re-entering).  Here's  the  rum,  sailor. 

Pew  [drinks).  Ah,  rum!  That's  my  sheet-anchor: 
rum  and  the  blessed  Gospel.  Don't  you  forget  that, 
ma'am:  rum  and  the  Gospel  is  old  Pew's  sheet-anchor. 
You  can  take  for  another  while  you're  about  it;  and,  I 

354 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

say,  short  reckonings  make  long  friends,  hey  ?   Where's 
my  change  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  I'm  counting  it  now.  There,  there  it 
is,  and  thank  you  for  your  custom.     {She  goes  out,  R.) 

Pew  {calling  after  her).  Don't  thank  me,  ma'am; 
thank  the  act  of  parleyment!  Rum,  fourpence;  two 
penny  pieces  and  a  Willi'm-and-Mary  tizzy  makes  a 
shilling;  and  a  spade  half-guinea  is  eleven  and  six 
{re-enter  Mrs.  Drake  with  supper,  pipe,  etc.)]  and  a 
blessed  Majesty  George  the  First  crown-piece  makes 
sixteen  and  six;  and  two  shilling  bits  is  eighteen  and 
six;  and  a  new  half-crown  makes  —  no  it  don't!  O, 
no!  Old  Pew's  too  smart  a  hand  to  be  bammed  with 
a  soft  half-tusheroon. 

Mrs.  Drake  {changing  piece).  I'm  sure  I  didn't  know 
it,  sailor. 

Pew  {trying  new  coin  between  his  teeth).  In  course 
you  didn't,  my  dear;  but  I  did,  and  I  thought  I'd  men- 
tion it.  Is  that  my  supper,  hey  ?  Do  my  nose  deceive 
me?  {Sniffing  and  feeling.)  Cold  duck?  sage  and 
onions  ?  a  round  of  double  Gloster  ?  and  that  noggin 
o'  rum  ?  Why,  I  declare  if  I'd  stayed  and  took  pot- 
luck  with  my  old  commander,  Cap'n  John  Gaunt,  he 
couldn't  have  beat  this  little  spread,  as  I've  got  by  act 
of  parleyment. 

Mrs.  Drake  {at  knitting).  Do  you  know  the  captain, 
sailor  ? 

Pew.  Know  him  ?  I  was  that  man's  bo'sun,  ma'am. 
In  the  Guinea  trade,  we  was  known  as  "  Pew's  Cap'n," 
and  "Gaunt's  Bo'sun,"  one  for  other  like.  We  was 
like  two  brothers,  ma'am.  And  a  excellent  cold  duck, 
to  be  sure ;  and  the  rum  lovely. 

355 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Mrs.  Drake.  If  you  know  John  Gaunt,  you  know 
his  daughter  Arethusa. 

Pew.  What  ?  Arethusa  ?  Know  her,  says  you  ? 
know  her  ?  Why,  Lord  love  you,  I  was  her  god-father. 
["Pew,"  says  Jack  Gaunt  to  me,  "Pew,"  he  says, 
"  you're  a  man, "  he  says ;  "  I  like  a  man  to  be  a  man, " 
says  he,  "and  damme,"  he  says,  "I  like  you;  and 
sink  me,"  says  he,  "if  you  don't  promise  and  vow  in 
the  name  of  that  new-born  babe,"  he  says,  "why 
damme.  Pew,"  says  he,  "you're  not  the  man  I  take 
you  for."]  Yes,  ma'am,  I  named  that  female;  with 
my  own  *ands  I  did;  Arethusa,  I  named  her;  that  was 
the  name  I  give  her;  so  now  you  know  if  I  speak 
true.  And  if  you'll  be  as  good  as  get  me  another  nog- 
gin of  rum,  why,  we'll  drink  her  'elth  with  three  times 
three.  {Exit  Mrs.  Drake:  Pew  eating.  Mrs.  Drake 
re-entering  with  rum.) 

[Mrs.  Drake.  If  what  you  say  be  true,  sailor  (and  I 
don't  say  it  isn't,  mind!),  it's  strange  that  Arethusa  and 
that  godly  man  her  father  have  never  so  much  as  spoke 
your  name. 

Pew.  Why,  that's  so !  And  why,  says  you  ?  Why, 
when  I  dropped  in  and  paid  my  respecks  this  morning, 
do  you  think  she  knew  me  }  No  more'n  a  babe  un- 
born! Why,  ma'am,  when  I  promised  and  vowed  for 
her,  I  was  the  picter  of  a  man-o'-war's  man,  I  was: 
eye  like  a  eagle;  walked  the  deck  in  a  hornpipe,  foot 
up  and  foot  down;  v'ice  as  mellow  as  rum;  'and  upon 
'art,  and  all  the  females  took  dead  aback  at  the  first 
sight.  Lord  bless  'em !  Know  me  ?  Not  likely.  And 
as  for  me,  when  I  found  her  such  a  lovely  woman  — 
by  the  feel  of  her  'and  and  arm!  —  you  might  have 

356 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  But  here's  where 
it  is,  you  see:  when  you've  been  knocking  about  on 
blue  water  for  a  matter  of  two  and  forty  year,  ship- 
wrecked here,  and  blown  up  there,  and  everywhere 
out  of  luck,  and  given  over  for  dead  by  all  your  mess- 
mates and  relations,  why  what  it  amounts  to  is  this: 
nobody  knows  you,  and  you  hardly  knows  yourself, 
and  there  you  are;  and  I'll  trouble  you  for  another  nog- 
gin of  rum. 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  think  you've  had  enough. 

Pew.  I  don't;  so  bear  a  hand.  {Exit  Mrs.  Drake; 
Pew  empties  the  glass.)  Rum,  ah,  rum,  you're  a  lovely 
creature;  they  haven't  never  done  you  justice.  {Pro- 
ceeds  to  fill  and  light  pipe ;  re-enter  Mrs.  Drake  with 
rum.)]  And  now,  ma'am,  since  you're  so  genteel  and 
amicable-like,  what  about  my  old  commander  ?  Is  he, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  on  half  pay  ?  or  is  he  living 
on  his  fortune,  like  a  gentleman  slaver  ought  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Well,  sailor,  people  talk,  you  know. 

Pew.  I  know,  ma'am;  I'd  have  been  rolling  in  my 
coach,  if  they'd  have  held  their  tongues. 

Mrs.  Drake.  And  they  do  say  that  Captain  Gaunt, 
for  so  pious  a  man,  is  little  better  than  a  miser. 

Pew.  Don't  say  it,  ma'am;  not  to  old  Pew.  Ah, 
how  often  have  I  up  and  strove  with  him!  **Cap'n, 
live  it  down,"  says  I.  "Ah,  Pew,"  says  he,  "you're 
a  better  man  than  I  am,"  he  says;  "but  damme,"  he 
says,  "money,"  he  says,  "is  like  rum  to  me."  (In- 
sinuating.) And  what  about  a  old  sea-chest,  hey?  a 
old  sea-chest,  strapped  with  brass  bands  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Why,  that'll  be  the  chest  in  his  par- 
lour, where  he  has  it  bolted  to  the  wall,  as  I've  seen 

357 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

with  my  own  eyes;  and  so  might  you,  if  you  had  eyes 
to  see  with. 

Pew.  No,  ma'am,  that  ain't  good  enough;  you  don't 
bam  old  Pew.  You  never  was  in  that  parlour  in  your 
life. 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  never  was?    Well,  I  declare! 

Pew.  Well  then,  if  you  was,  where's  the  chest? 
Beside  the  chimbley,  hey?  {Winking.)  Beside  the 
table  with  the  'oly  Bible  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  No,  sailor,  you  don't  get  any  informa- 
tion out  of  me. 

Pew.  What,  ma'am  ?  Not  to  old  Pew  ?  Why,  my 
god-child  showed  it  me  herself,  and  I  told  her  where 
she'd  find  my  name  —  P,  E,  W,  Pew  —  cut  out  on  the 
starn  of  it;  and  sure  enough  she  did.  Why,  ma'am, 
it  was  his  old  money-box  when  he  was  in  the  Guinea, 
trade;  and  they  do  say  he  keeps  the  rhino  in  it  still. 

Mrs.  Drake.  No,  sailor,  nothing  out  of  me!  And 
if  you  want  to  know,  you  can  ask  the  Admiral  him- 
self!    {She  crosses,  L.) 

Pew.  Hey  !  Old  girl  fly  ?  Then  I  reckon  I  must 
have  a  mate,  if  it  was  the  parish  bull. 

SCENE   II 
To  thesey  Kit,  a  little  drunk 

Vat  {looking in  over  half- door).  Mrs.  Drake!  Mother! 
Where  are  you  ?    Come  and  welcome  the  prodigal! 

Mrs.  Drake  {coming  forward  to  meet  him  as  he  en^ 
ters ;  Pew  remains  concealed  by  the  settle,  smoking^ 
drinking,  and  listening).  Lord  bless  us  and  save  us, 
if  it  ain't  my  boy!    Give  us  a  kiss. 

358 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Kit.  That  I  will,  and  twenty  if  you  like,  old  girl. 
{Kisses  her.) 

Mrs.  Drake.  O  Kit,  Kit,  you've  been  at  those  other 
houses,  where  the  stuff  they  give  you,  my  dear,  it  is 
poison  for  a  dog. 

[Kit.  Round  with  friends,  mother:  only  round  with 
friends. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Well,  anyway,  you'll  take  a  glass  just 
to  settle  it,  from  me.     {She  brings  the  bottle,  and  fills 

or  him.)  There,  that's  pure;  that'll  do  you  no  harm.] 
But  O,  Kit,  Kit,  I  thought  you  were  done  with  all  this 
Jack-a-shoring. 

Kit.  What  cheer,  mother  ?  I'm  only  a  sheet  in  the 
wind;  and  who's  the  worse  for  it  but  me  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Ah,  and  that  dear  young  lady;  and  her 
waiting  and  keeping  single  these  two  years  for  the  love 
of  you! 

Kit.  She,  mother  ?  she's  heart  of  oak,  she's  true  as 
steel,  and  good  as  gold;  and  she  has  my  ring  on  her 
finger,  too.  But  where's  the  use  ?  The  Admiral  won't 
look  at  me. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Why  not?  You're  as  good  a  man  as 
him  any  day. 

Kit.  Am  \}  He  says  I'm  a  devil,  and  swears  that 
none  of  his  flesh  and  blood  —  that's  what  he  said, 
mother!  —  should  lie  at  my  mercy.  That's  what  cuts 
me.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  good  stuff  I've  been  taking 
aboard,  and  the  jolly  companions  I've  been  seeing  it 
out  with,  I'd  just  go  and  make  a  hole  in  the  water,  and 
be  done  with  it,  I  would,  by  George! 

Mrs.  Drake.  That's  like  you  men.  Ah,  we  know 
you,  we  that  keeps  a  public-house  —  we  know  you, 

359 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

good  and  bad:  you  go  off  on  a  frolic  and  forget;  and 
you  never  think  of  the  women  that  sit  crying  at  home. 

Kit.  Crying  ?  Arethusa  cry  ?  Why,  dame,  she's  the 
bravest-hearted  girl  in  all  broad  England!  Here,  fill  the 
glass!  I'll  win  her  yet.  I  drink  to  her;  here's  to  her 
bright  eyes,  and  here's  to  the  blessed  feet  she  walks 
upon! 

Pew  {looking  round  the  corner  of  the  settle).  Spoke 
like  a  gallant  seaman,  every  inch.  Shipmate,  I'm  a  man 
as  has  suffered,  and  I'd  like  to  shake  your  fist,  and  drink 
a  can  of  flip  with  you. 

Kit  {coming  down).  Hullo,  my  hearty!  who  the  devil 
are  you  ?   Who's  this,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Nay,  I  know  nothing  about  him.  (She 
goes  out,  R.) 

Pew.  Cap'n,  I'm  a  brot'ner  seaman,  and  my  name  is 
Pew,  old  David  Pew,  as  you  may  have  heard  of  in  your 
time,  he  having  sailed  along  of  'Awke  and  glorious 
Benbow,  and  a  right  'and  man  to  both. 

Kit.  Benbow  ?  Steady,  mate !  D'ye  mean  to  say  you 
went  to  sea  before  you  were  born  } 

Pew.  See  now !  The  sign  of  this  here  inn  was  run- 
'ning  in  my  'ed,  I  reckon.  Benbow,  says  you  }  no,  not 
likely!  Anson,  I  mean;  Anson  and  Sir  Edward  'Awke: 
that's  the  pair:  I  was  their  right  'and  man. 

Kit.  Well,  mate,  you  may  be  all  that,  and  more;  but 
you're  a  rum  un  to  look  at,  anyhow. 

Pew.  Right  you  are,  and  so  I  am.  But  what  is 
looks  }  It's  the  'art  that  does  it:  the  'art  is  the  seaman's 
star;  and  here's  old  David  Pew's,  a  matter  of  fifty  years 
at  sea,  but  tough  and  sound  as  the  British  Constitootion. 

Kit.  You're  right  there,  Pew.  Shake  hands  upon  it. 
360 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

And  you're  a  man  they're  down  upon,  just  like  myself, 
I  see.  We're  a  pair  of  plain,  good-hearted,  jolly  tars ; 
and  all  these  'longshore  fellows  cock  a  lip  at  us,  by 
George.     What  cheer,  mate  ? 

Arethusa  {without).  Mrs.  Drake!  Mrs.  Drake! 

Pew.  What,  a  female  ?  hey  ?  a  female  ?  Board  her, 
board  her,  mate!  I'm  dark.  {He  retires  again  behind, 
to  table,  R.y  behind  settle,) 

Arethusa  {without).    Mrs.  Drake! 

Mrs.  Drake  {re-entering  and  running  to  door).  Here 
I  am,  my  dear;  come  in. 

SCENE  III 
To  these,  Arethusa 

Arethusa.  Ah,  Kit,  I've  found  you.  I  thought  you 
would  lodge  with  Mrs.  Drake. 

Kit.  What?  are  you  looking  for  your  consort? 
Whistle,  I'm  your  dog;  I'll  come  to  you.  I've  been 
toasting  you  fathom  deep,  my  beauty;  and  with  every 
glass  1  love  you  dearer. 

Arethusa.  Now  Kit,  if  you  want  to  please  my  father, 
this  is  not  the  way.  Perhaps  he  thinks  too  much  of 
the  guineas :  well,  gather  them  —  if  you  think  me  worth 
the  price.  Go  you  to  your  sloop,  clinker  built,  eighty 
tons  burthen  —  you  see  I  remember,  Skipper  Kit!  I 
don't  deny  I  like  a  man  of  spirit;  but  if  you  care  to 
please  Captain  Gaunt,  keep  out  of  taverns ;  and  if  you 
could  carry  yourself  a  bit  more  —  more  elderly! 

[Kit.  Can  1  ?  Would  1  ?  Ah,  just  couldn't  and  just 
won't  I,  then ! 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  hope,  madam,  you  don't  refer  to  my 
361 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

house;  a  publican  I  may  be,  but  tavern  is  a  word  that 
I  don't  hold  with;  and  here  there's  no  bad  drink,  and 
no  loose  company;  and  as  for  my  blessedest  Kit,  I  de- 
clare I  love  him  like  my  own. 

Arethusa.  Why,  who  could  help  it,  Mrs.  Drake  ?] 

Kit.  Arethusa,  you're  an  angel.  Do  I  want  to  please 
Captain  Gaunt?  Why,  that's  as  much  as  ask  whether 
I  love  you.  [I  don't  deny  that  his  words  cut  me;  for 
they  did.  But  as  for  wanting  to  please  him,  if  he  was 
deep  as  the  blue  Atlantic,  I  would  beat  it  out.  And 
elderly,  too.?  Aha,  you  witch,  you're  wise!  Elderly? 
You've  set  the  course;  you  leave  me  alone  to  steer  it. 
Matrimony's  my  port,  and  love  is  my  cargo.]  That's  a 
likely  question,  ain't  it,  Mrs.  Drake  ?  Do  I  want  to 
please  him!  Elderly,  says  you?  Why,  see  here:  Fill 
up  my  glass,  and  I'll  drink  to  Arethusa  on  my  knees. 

Arethusa.  Why,  you  stupid  boy,  do  you  think  that 
would  please  him  ? 

Kit.  On  my  knees  I'll  drink  it!  {As  he  kneels  and 
drains  the  gla^s.  Gaunt  enters,  and  he  scramble  to  his 
feet,) 

SCENE   IV 

To  these.  Gaunt 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  this  is  no  place  for  you. 

Arethusa.  No,  father. 

Gaunt.  I  wish  you  had  been  spared  this  sight;  but 
look  at  him,  child,  since  you  are  here;  look  at  God's 
image,  so  debased.  And  you,  young  man  {to  Kit), 
you  have  proved  that  I  was  right.  Are  you  the  hus- 
band for  this  innocent  maid  ? 

Kit.  Captain  Gaunt,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you. 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Terror  is  your  last  word;  you're  bitter  hard  upon  poor 
sinners,  bitter  hard  and  black  —  you  that  were  a  sinner 
yourself.  These  are  not  the  true  colours :  don't  deceive 
yourself;  you're  out  of  your  course. 

[Gaunt.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  be  hard,  Chris- 
topher. It  is  not  I;  it's  God's  law  that  is  of  iron. 
Think!  if  the  blow  were  to  fall  now,  some  cord  to 
snap  within  you,  some  enemy  to  plunge  a  knife  into 
your  heart;  this  room,  with  its  poor  taper  light,  to 
vanish;  this  world  to  disappear  like  a  drowning  man 
into  the  great  ocean;  and  you,  your  brain  still  whirling, 
to  be  snatched  into  the  presence  of  the  eternal  Judge: 
Christopher  French,  what  answer  would  you  make.^ 
For  these  gifts  wasted,  for  this  rich  mercy  scorned,  for 
these  high-handed  bravings  of  your  better  angel, — 
what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Kit,  Well,  sir,  I  want  my  word  with  you,  and  by 
your  leave  I'll  have  it  out. 

Arethusa.  Kit,  for  pity's  sake! 

Kit.  Arethusa,  I  don't  speak  to  you,  my  dear:  you've 
got  my  ring,  and  I  know  what  that  means.  The  man  I 
speak  to  is  Captain  Gaunt.  I  came  to-day  as  happy  a 
man  as  ever  stepped,  and  with  as  fair  a  look-out.  What 
did  you  care  ?  what  was  your  reply  ?  None  of  your 
flesh  and  blood,  you  said,  should  lie  at  the  mercy  of  a 
wretch  like  me!  Am  I  not  flesh  and  blood  that  you 
should  trample  on  me  like  that  ?  Is  that  charity,  to 
stamp  the  hope  out  of  a  poor  soul  ?] 

Gaunt.  You  speak  wildly ;  or  the  devil  of  drink  that 
is  in  you  speaks  instead. 

Kit.  You  think  me  drunk  ?  well,  so  I  am,  and  whose 
fault  is  it  but  yours  ?    It  was  I  that  drank;  but  you 

363 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

take  your  share  of  it,  Captain  Gaunt:  you  it  was  that 
filled  the  can. 

Gaunt.  Christopher  French,  I  spoke  but  for  your 
good,  your  good  and  hers.  *'  Woe  unto  him  "  —  these 
are  the  dreadful  words — **by  whom  ofTences  shall 

come:  it  were  better "  Christopher,  I  can  but  pray 

for  both  of  us. 

Kit.  Prayers  ?  Now  I  tell  you  freely,  Captain  Gaunt, 
I  don't  value  your  prayers.  Deeds  are  what  I  ask; 
kind  deeds  and  words  —  that's  the  true-blue  piety:  to 
hope  the  best  and  do  the  best,  and  speak  the  kindest. 
As  for  you,  you  insult  me  to  my  face;  and  then  you'll 
pray  for  me  ?  What's  that  ?  Insult  behind  my  back  is 
what  I  call  it !  No,  sir ;  you're  out  of  the  course ;  you're 
no  good  man  to  my  view,  be  you  who  you  may. 

Mrs.  Drake.  O  Christopher!    To  Captain  Gaunt ? 

Arethusa.  Father,  father,  come  away ! 

Kit.  Ah,  you  see.^  She  suffers  too;  we  all  suffer. 
You  spoke  just  now  of  a  devil;  well,  I'll  tell  you  the 
devil  you  have:  the  devil  of  judging  others.  And  as 
for  me,  I'll  get  as  drunk  as  Bacchus. 

Gaunt.  Come! 

SCENE  V 

Pew,  Mrs.  Drake,  Kit 

Pew  (coming  out  and  waving  his  pipe).  Commander, 
shake!  Hooray  for  old  England!  If  there's  anything 
in  the  world  that  goes  to  old  Pew's  'art,  it's  argyment. 
Commander,  you  handled  him  like  a  babby,  kept  the 
weather  gauge,  and  hulled  him  every  shot.  Com- 
mander, give  it  a  name,  and  let  that  name  be  rum! 

364 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

Kit.  Ay,  rum's  the  sailor's  fancy.  Mrs.  Drake,  a 
bottle  and  clean  glasses. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Kit  French,  I  wouldn't.  Think  better 
of  it,  there's  a  dear!     And  that  sweet  girl  just  gone! 

Pew.  Ma'am,  I'm  not  a  'ard  man;  I'm  not  the  man 
to  up  and  force  a  act  of  parleyment  upon  a  helpless 
female.  But  you  see  here:  Pew's  friends  is  sacred. 
Here's  my  friend  here,  a  perfeck  seaman,  and  a  man 
with  a  'ed  upon  his  shoulders,  and  a  man  that,  damme, 
I  admire.     He  give  you  a  order,  ma'am :  —  march ! 

Mrs.  Drake.  Kit,  don't  you  listen  to  that  blind  man; 
he's  the  devil  wrote  upon  his  face. 

Pew.  Don't  you  insinuate  against  my  friend.  He 
ain't  a  child,  I  hope  }  he  knows  his  business  ?  Don't 
you  get  trying  to  go  a  lowering  of  my  friend  in  his 
own  esteem. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Well,  I'll  bring  it.  Kit;  but  it's  against 
the  grain.     {Exit) 

Kit.  I  say,  old  boy,  come  to  think  of  it,  why  should 
we.^  It's  been  glasses  round  with  me  all  day.  I've 
got  my  cargo. 

Pew.  You  ?  and  you  just  argy'd  the  'ed  off  of  Admiral 
Guinea?  O  stash  that!   /stand  treat,  if  it  comes  to  that! 

Kit.  What!  Do  I  meet  with  a  blind  seaman  and  not 
stand  him  }    That's  not  the  man  I  am! 

Mrs.  Drake  {re-entering  with  bottle  and  glasses.) 
There! 

Pew.  Easy  does  it,  ma'am. 

Kit.  Mrs.  Drake,  you  had  better  trot. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Yes,  I'll  trot;  and  I  trot  with  a  sick 
heart.  Kit  French,  to  leave  you  drinking  your  wits 
away  with  that  low  blind  man.     For  a  low  man  you 

365 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

are  —  a  low  blind  man  —  and  your  clothes  they  would 
disgrace  a  scarecrow.  I'll  go  to  my  bed,  Kit;  and  O, 
dear  boy,  go  soon  to  yours  —  the  old  room,  you  know; 
it's  ready  for  you  —  and  go  soon  and  sleep  it  off;  for 
you  know,  dear,  they,  one  and  all,  regret  it  in  the 
morning;  thirty  years  I've  kept  this  house,  and  one 
and  all  they  regret  it,  dear. 

Pew.  Come  now,  you  walk! 

Mrs.  Drake.  O,  it's  not  for  your  bidding.  You  a 
seaman  ?  The  ship  for  you  to  sail  in  is  the  hangman's 
cart. — Good-night,  Kit  dear,  and  better  company! 

SCENE   VI 
Pew,  Kit.      They  sit  at  the  other  table,  L. 

Pew.  Commander,  here's  her  'ealth ! 

Kit.  Ay,  that's  the  line:  her  health!  But  that  old 
woman  there  is  a  good  old  woman,  Pew. 

Pew.  So  she  is,  Commander.  But  there's  no  woman 
understands  a  seaman;  now  you  and  me,  being  both 
bred  to  it,  we  splice  by  natur'.  As  for  A.  G.,  if  argy- 
ment  can  win  her,  why,  she's  yours.  If  I'd  a-had  your 
'ed for argyment,  damme,  I'd  a-been  a  Admiral,  I  would! 
And  if  argyment  won't  win  her,  well,  see  here,  you  put 
your  trust  in  David  Pew. 

Kit.  David  Pew,  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  David 
Pew;  I  never  heard  of  you;  I  don't  seem  able  to  clearly 
see  you.     Mrs.  Drake,  she's  a  smart  old  woman,  Pew 
and  she  says  you've  the  devil  in  your  face. 

Pew.  Ah,  and  why,  says  you  ?  Because  I  up  and 
put  her  in  her  place,  when  she  forgot  herself  to  you, 
Commander. 

366 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Kit.  Well,  Pew,  that's  so;  you  stood  by  me  like  a 
man.  Shake  hands,  Pew;  and  we'll  make  a  night  of 
it,  or  we'll  know  why,  old  boy! 

Pew.  That's  my  way.  That's  Pew's  way,  that  is. 
That's  Pew's  way  all  over.  Commander,  excuse  the 
liberty;  but  when  I  was  your  age,  making  allowance 
for  a  lowlier  station  and  less  'ed  for  argyment,  I  was  as 
like  you  as  two  peas.     I  know  it  by  the  v'ice  {sings)  — 

*'  We  hadn't  been  three  days  at  sea  before  we  saw  a  sail, 
So  we  clapped  on  every  stitch  would  stand,  although  it  blew  a  gale, 
And  we  walked  along  full  fourteen  knots,  for  the  barkie  she  did 

know, 
^s  well  as  ever  a  soul  on  board,  'twas  time  for  us  to  go.** 

Chorus,  Cap'nl 

Pew  and  Kit  (in  chorus) — 

"  Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  for  us  to  go. 
As  well  as  ever  a  soul  on  board, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go." 

Pew  {sings)  — 

**  We  carried  away  the  royal  yard,  and  the  stunsail  boom  was  gone; 
Says  the  skipper,  *  They  may  go  or  stand,  I'm  damned  if  I  don't 

crack  on; 
So  the  weather  braces  we'll  round  in,  and  the  trysail  set  also, 
And  we'll  keep  the  brig  three  p'ints  away,  for  its  time  for  us  to  go.*  ** 

Give  it  mouth.  Commander! 
Pew  and  Kit  {in  chorus)  — 

*'  Time  for  us  to  go. 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
And  we'll  keep  the  brig  three  p'ints  away. 
For  it's  time  for  us  to  go." 
367 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  I  ain't  sung  like  that  since  I  sang  to  Admiral 
*Awke,  the  night  before  I  lost  my  eyes,  1  ain't.  "Sink 
me!  "  says  he,  says  Admiral  'Awke,  my  old  commander 
(touching  his  hat),  **sink  me!"  he  says,  "if  that  ain't 
'art-of-oak,"  he  says:  " 'art-of-oak,"  says  he,  "and  a 
pipe  like  a  bloody  blackbird!"  Commander,  here's 
my  respecks,  and  the  devil  fly  away  with  Admiral 
Guinea! 

Kit.  I  say,  Pew,  how's  this?  How  do  you  know 
about  Admiral  Guinea  ?  I  say,  Pew,  I  begin  to  think 
you  know  too  much. 

Pew.  I  ax  your  pardon ;  but  as  a  man  with  a  'ed  for 
argyment  —  and  that's  your  best  p'int  o'  sailing,  Com- 
mander; intelleck  is  your  best  p'int  —  as  a  man  with  a 
'ed  for  argyment,  how  do  I  make  it  out  ? 

Kit.  Aha,  you're  a  sly  dog,  you're  a  deep  dog,  Pew; 
but  you  can't  get  the  weather  of  Kit  French.  How  do 
I  make  it  out.^  I'll  tell  you.  I  make  it  out  like  this: 
Your  name's  Pew,  ain't  it  ?  Very  well.  And  you  know 
Admiral  Guinea,  and  that's  his  name,  eh  ?  Very  well. 
Then  you're  Pew;  and  the  Admiral's  the  Admiral;  and 
you  know  the  Admiral ;  and  by  George,  that's  all.  Hey  ? 
Drink  about,  boys,  drink  about! 

Pew.  Lord  love  you,  if  I'd  a-had  a  'ed  like  yours! 
Why,  the  Admiral  was  my  first  cap'n.  I  was  that  man's 
bo'sun,  I  was,  aboard  the  Arethusa  ;  and  we  was  like 
two  brothers.  Did  you  never  hear  of  Guinea-land  and 
the  black  ivory  business  ?  (sings)  — 

*'  A  quick  run  to  the  south  we  had,  and  when  we  made  the  Bight 
We  kept  the  offing  all  day  long  and  crossed  the  bar  at  night. 
Six  hundred  niggers  in  the  hold  and  seventy  we  did  stow, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on,  'twas  time  for  us  to  go." 
368 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Lay  forward,  lads ! 

Kit  and  Pew  {in  chorus)  — 

"  Time  for  us  to  go,"  etc. 

Kit.  I  say,  Pew,  I  like  you;  you're  a  damned  ugly 
dog;  but  I  like  you.  But  look  ye  here,  Pew:  fair  does 
it,  you  know,  or  we  part  company  this  minute.     If  you 

and  the  Ad the  Admirable  were  like  brothers  on 

the  Guinea  coast,  why  aren't  you  like  brothers  here  } 

Pew.  Ah,  /see  you  coming.  What  a  'ed!  what  a 
*ed!  Since  Pew  is  a  friend  of  the  family,  says  you,  why 
didn't  he  sail  in  and  bear  a  hand,  says  you,  when  you 
was  knocking  the  Admiral's  ship  about  his  ears  in  ar- 
gyment } 

Kit.  Well,  Pew,  now  you  put  a  name  to  it,  why  not } 

Pew.  Ah,  why  not }  There  I  recko'nise  you.  [Well, 
see  here:  argyment's  my  weakness,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking;  I  wouldn't  a-borne  down  and  spiled  sport,, 
not  for  gold  untold,  no,  not  for  rum,  I  wouldn't!  And 
besides.  Commander,  I  put  it  to  you,  as  between  man 
and  man,  would  it  have  been  seaman-like  to  let  on  and 
show  myself  to  a  old  shipmate,  when  he  was  yard-arm 
to  yard-arm  with  a  craft  not  half  his  metal,  and  getting 
blown  out  of  water  every  broadside  ?  Would  it  have 
been  'ansome  ?  I  put  it  to  you,  as  between  man  and 
man. 

Kit.  Pew,  I  may  have  gifts ;  but  I  never  thought  of 
that.  Why,  no:  not  seaman-like.  Pew,  you've  a 
heart;  that's  what  I  like  you  for. 

Pew.  Ah,  that  I  have:  you'll  see.  I  wanted  —  now 
you  follow  me  —  I  wanted  to  keep  square  with  Admiral 
Guinea.]   Why  ?  says  you.    Well,  put  it  that  I  know  a 

3^9 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

fine  young  fellow  when  I  sees  him ;  and  put  it  that  I 
wish  him  well;  and  put  it,  for  the  sake  of  argyment, 
that  the  father  of  that  lovely  female's  in  my  power. 
Aha?  Pew's  Power!  Why,  in  my  'ands  he's  like  this 
pocket  'andke'cher.     Now,  brave  boy,  do  you  see  ? 

Kit.  No,  Pew,  my  head's  gone;  I  don't  see. 

Pew.  Why,  cheer  up,  Commander!  You  want  to 
marry  this  lovely  female  ? 

Kit.  Ay,  that  I  do;  but  I'm  not  fit  for  her.  Pew;  I'm 
a  drunken  dog,  and  I'm  not  fit  for  her. 

Pew.  Now,  Cap'n,  you'll  allow  a  old  seaman  to  be 

judge:  one  as  sailed  with  'Awke  and  blessed  Benb 

with  'Awke  and  noble  Anson.  You've  been  open  and 
above-board  with  me,  and  I'll  do  the  same  by  you:  it 
being  the  case  that  you're  hard  hit  about  a  lovely  wo- 
man, which  many  a  time  and  oft  it  has  happened  to  old 
Pew;  and  him  with  a  feeling  'art  that  bleeds  for  you. 
Commander;  why  look  here:  I'm  that  girl's  godfather; 
promised  and  vowed  for  her,  I  did;  and  I  like  you;  and 
you're  the  man  for  her;  and,  by  the  living  Jacob,  you 
shall  splice! 

Kit.  David  Pew,  do  you  mean  what  you  say  ? 

Pew.  Do  I  mean  what  I  say  ?  Does  David  Pew  ?  Ask 
Admiral  'Awke!  Ask  old  Admiral  Byng  in  his  coffin, 
where  I  laid  him  with  these  'ands!  Pew  does,  is  what 
those  naval  commanders  would  reply.  Mean  it.^  I 
reckon  so. 

Kit.  Then,  shake  hands.  You're  an  honest  man. 
Pew  —  old  Pew!  —  and  I'll  make  your  fortune.  But 
there's  something  else,  if  I  could  keep  the  run  of  it.  O, 
ah!  But  can  you?  That's  the  point.  Can  you;  don't 
you  see  ? 

370 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  Can  I  ?  You  leave  that  to  me;  I'll  bring  you  to 
your  moorings;  I'm  the  man  that  can,  and  I'm  him  that 
will.  But  only,  look  here,  let's  understand  each  other. 
You're  a  bold  blade,  ain't  you  ?  You  won't  stick  at  a 
trifle  for  a  lovely  female  ?  You'll  back  me  up  ?  You're 
a  man,  ain't  you  ?  a  man,  and  you'll  see  me  through 
and  through  it,  hey  .^  Come;  is  that  so?  Are  you  fair 
and  square  and  stick  at  nothing  ? 

Kit.  Me,  Pew  ?    I'll  go  through  fire  and  water. 

Pew.  I'll  risk  it. — Well,  then,  see  here,  my  son: 
another  swallow  and  we  jog. 

Kit.  No,  not  to-night.  Pew,  not  to-night! 

Pew.  Commander,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  where- 
fore ? 

Kit.  Wherefore,  Pew  ?  'Cause  why,  Pew  ?  'Cause 
I'm  drunk,  and  be  damned  to  you! 

Pew.  Commander,  I  ax  your  pardon;  but,  saving 
your  presence,  that's  a  lie.  What  ?  drunk  ?  a  man  with 
a  'ed  for  argyment  like  that  ?  Just  you  get  up,  and  steady 
yourself  on  your  two  pins,  and  you'll  be  as  right  as 
ninepence. 

[Kit.  Pew,  before  we  budge,  let  me  shake  your  flip- 
per again.  You're  heart  of  oak.  Pew,  sure  enough;  and 
if  you  can  bring  the  Adam  —  Admirable  about,  why, 
damme,  I'll  make  your  fortune!  How  you're  going  to 
do  it,  I  don't  know;  but  I'll  stand  by;  and  I  know 
you'll  do  it  if  anybody  can.  But  I'm  drunk.  Pew;  you 
can't  deny  that:  I'm  as  drunk  as  a  Plymouth  fiddler. 
Pew;  and  how  you're  going  to  do  it  is  a  mystery  to 
me. 

Pew.  Ah,  you  leave  that  to  me.  All  I  want  is  what 
I've  got:  your  promise  to  stand  by  and  bear  a  hand 

37» 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

{producing  a  dark  lantern).']  Now,  here,  you  see,  is 
my  little  glim;  it  ain't  for  me,  because  I'm  blind,  worse 
luck!  and  the  day  and  night  is  the  blessed  same  to 
David  Pew.  But  you  watch.  You  put  the  candle  near 
me.  Here's  what  there  ain't  mony  blind  men  could  do, 
take  the  pick  o'  them !  {lighting  a  screw  of  paper y  and 
with  that,  the  lantern)  Hey  }  That's  it.  Hey  ?  Go  and 
pity  the  poor  blind! 

Kit  {while  Pew  blows  out  the  candles).  But  I  say. 
Pew,  what  do  you  want  with  it  ? 

Pew.  To  see  by,  my  son.  {He  shuts  the  lantern  and 
puts  it  in  his  pocket.  Stage  quite  dark.  Moonlight  at 
window.)  All  ship-shape?  No  sparks  about.?*  No.> 
Come,  then,  lean  on  me  and  heave  ahead  for  the  lovely 
female.     {Singing  sotto  voce)  — 

"  Time  for  us  to  go. 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go." 

Drop 


^7« 


ACT  III 

The  Stage  represents  the  Admiral's  house,  as  in  Act  I.    Gaunt 
seated,  is  reading  aloud  ;  Arethusa  sjYs  at  his  feet.     Candles 

SCENE  I 
Arethusa,  Gaunt 

[Gaunt  {reading).  '*And  Ruth  said,  Intreat  me  not 
1o  leave  thee,  or  to  return  from  following  after  thee: 
for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go;  and  where  thou 
lodgest,  I  will  lodge:  thy  people  shall  be  my  people, 
and  thy  God  my  God:  Where  thou  diest,  will  I  die, 
and  there  will  I  be  buried:  the  Lord  do  so  to  me,  and 
more  also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee  and  me."  {He 
•closes  the  book.)     Amen. 

Arethusa.  Amen.     Father,  there  spoke  my  heart] 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  has  seen 
right  to  vex  us  with  trials  of  many  kinds.  It  is  a  little 
matter  to  endure  the  pangs  of  the  flesh :  the  smart  of 
wounds,  the  passion  of  hunger  and  thirst,  the  heaviness 
of  disease;  and  in  this  world  I  have  learned  to  take 
thought  for  nothing  save  the  quiet  of  your  soul.  It  is 
through  our  affections  that  we  are  smitten  with  the 
true  pain,  even  the  pain  that  kills. 

Arethusa.  And  yet  this  pain  is  our  natural  lot. 
373 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Father,  I  fear  to  boast,  but  I  know  that  I  can  bear  it 
Let  my  life,  then,  flow  like  common  lives,  each  pain 
rewarded  with  some  pleasure,  each  pleasure  linked 
with  some  pain:  nothing  pure  whether  for  good  or 
evil:  and  my  husband,  like  myself,  and  all  the  rest  of 
us,  only  a  poor,  kind-hearted  sinner,  striving  for  the 
better  part.     What  more  could  any  woman  ask  ? 

Gaunt.  Child,  child,  your  words  are  like  a  sword. 
What  would  she  ask  ?  Look  upon  me  whom,  in  the 
earthly  sense,  you  are  commanded  to  respect.  Look 
upon  me:  do  I  bear  a  mark?  is  there  any  outward 
sign  to  bid  a  woman  avoid  and  flee  from  me  ? 

Arethusa.  I  see  nothing  but  the  face  I  love. 

Gaunt.  There  is  none:  nor  yet  on  the  young  man 
Christopher,  whose  words  still  haunt  and  upbraid  me. 
Yes,  I  am  hard;  I  was  born  hard,  born  a  tyrant,  born 
to  be  what  I  was,  a  slaver  captain.  But  to-night,  and 
to  save  you,  I  will  pluck  my  heart  out  of  my  bosom. 
You  shall  know  what  makes  me  what  1  am;  you  shall 
hear,  out  of  my  own  life,  why  I  dread  and  deprecate 
this  marriage.     Child,  do  you  remember  your  mother.^ 

Arethusa.  Remember  her?  Ah,  if  she  had  been 
here  to-day ! 

Gaunt.  It  is  thirteen  years  since  she  departed,  and 
took  with  her  the  whole  sunshine  of  my  life.  Do  you 
remember  the  manner  of  her  departure  ?  You  were  a 
child,  and  cannot;  but  I  can  and  do.  Remember? 
shall  I  ever  forget?  Here,  or  hereafter,  ever  forget! 
Ten  years  she  was  my  wife,  and  ten  years  she  lay 
a-dying.  Arethusa,  she  was  a  saint  on  earth;  and  it 
was  1  that  killed  her. 

Arethusa.  Killed  her  ?  my  mother  ?    You  ? 
374 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Gaunt.  Not  with  my  hand;  for  I  loved  her.  I 
would  not  have  hurt  one  hair  upon  her  head.  But  she 
got  her  death  by  me,  as  sure  as  by  a  blow. 

Arethusa.  I  understand  —  I  can  see:  you  brood 
on  trifles,  misunderstandings,  unkindnesses  you  think 
them;  though  my  mother  never  knew  of  them,  or 
never  gave  them  a  second  thought.  It  is  natural,  when 
death  has  come  between. 

Gaunt.  I  married  her  from  Falmouth.  She  was 
comely  as  the  roe;  I  see  her  still  —  her  dove's  eyes  and 
her  smile!  I  was  older  than  she;  and  I  had  a  name 
for  hardness,  a  hard  and  wicked  man;  but  she  loved 
me —  my  Hester!  —  and  she  took  me  as  I  was.  O  how 
I  repaid  her  trust!  Well,  our  child  was  born  to  us; 
and  we  named  her  after  the  brig  I  had  built  and  sailed, 
the  old  craft  whose  likeness  —  older  than  you,  girl  — 
stands  there  above  our  heads.  And  so  far,  that  was 
happiness.  But  she  yearned  for  my  salvation;  and  it 
was  there  I  thwarted  her.  My  sins  were  a  burden  upon 
her  spirit,  a  shame  to  her  in  this  world,  her  terror  in 
the  world  to  come.  She  talked  much  and  often  of  my 
leaving  the  devil's  trade  I  sailed  in.  She  had  a  tender 
and  a  Christian  heart,  and  she  would  weep  and  pray 
for  the  poor  heathen  creatures  that  I  bought  and  sold 
and  shipped  into  misery,  till  my  conscience  grew  hot 
within  me.  I've  put  on  my  hat,  and  gone  out  and 
made  oath  that  my  next  cargo  should  be  my  last;  but 
it  never  was,  that  oath  was  never  kept.  So  I  sailed 
again  and  again  for  the  Guinea  coast,  until  the  trip 
came  that  was  to  be  my  last  indeed.  Well,  it  fell  out 
that  we  had  good  luck  trading,  and  I  stowed  the  brig 
with  these  poor  heathen  as  full  as  she  could  hold.     We 

375 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

had  a  fair  run  westward  till  we  were  past  the  line;  but 
one  night  the  wind  rose  and  there  came  a  hurricane, 
and  for  seven  days  we  were  tossed  on  the  deep  seas, 
in  the  hardest  straits,  and  every  hand  on  deck.  For 
several  days  they  were  battened  down:  all  that  time 
we  heard  their  cries  and  lamentations,  but  worst  at 
the  beginning;  and  when  at  last,  and  near  dead  myself, 
I  crept  below  —  O!  some  they  were  starved,  some 
smothered,  some  dead  of  broken  limbs;  and  the  hold 
was  like  a  lazar-house  in  the  time  of  the  anger  of  the 
Lord! 

Arethusa.  O! 

Gaunt.  It  was  two  hundred  and  five  that  we  threw 
overboard:  two  hundred  and  five  lost  souls  that  I  had 
hurried  to  their  doom.  I  had  many  die  with  me  be- 
fore; but  not  like  that  —  not  such  a  massacre  as  that; 
and  I  stood  dumb  before  the  sight.  For  I  saw  I  was 
their  murderer  —  body  and  soul  their  murderer;  and, 
Arethusa,  my  Hester  knew  it.  That  was  her  death- 
stroke:  it  felled  her.  She  had  long  been  dying  slowly; 
but  from  the  hour  she  heard  that  story,  the  garment 
of  the  flesh  began  to  waste  and  perish,  the  fountains 
of  her  life  dried  up;  she  faded  before  my  face;  and  in 
two  months  from  my  landing  —  O  Hester,  Hester, 
would  God  1  had  died  for  thee! 

Arethusa.  Mother!  O  poor  soul!  O  poor  father  I 
O  father,  it  was  hard  on  you. 

Gaunt.  The  night  she  died,  she  lay  there,  in  her  bed. 
She  took  my  hand.  "I  am  going,"  she  said,  "to 
heaven.  For  Christ's  sake,"  she  said,  "  come  after  me, 
and  bring  my  little  maid.  I'll  be  waiting  and  wearying 
till  you  come;  "  and  she  kissed  my  hand,  the  hand  that 

376 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

3cilled  her.  At  that  I  broke  out  calling  on  her  to  stop,  for 
it  was  more  than  1  could  bear.  But  no,  she  said  she 
must  still  tell  me  of  my  sins,  and  how  the  thought  of 
them  had  bowed  down  her  life.  "And  O!  "  she  said, 
*'if  I  couldn't  prevail  on  you  alive,  let  my  death."  .  .  . 
Well,  then,  she  died.  What  have  I  done  since  then  ? 
I've  laid  my  course  for  Hester.  Sin,  temptation,  pleas- 
ure, all  this  poor  shadow  of  a  world,  I  saw  them  not: 
I  saw  my  Hester  waiting,  waiting  and  wearying.  I  have 
-made  my  election  sure;  my  sins  I  have  cast  them  out. 
Hester,  Hester,  I  will  come  to  you,  poor  waiting  one; 
and  I'll  bring  your  little  maid:  ay,  dearest  soul,  I'll  bring 
your  little  maid  safe  with  me! 

Arethusa.  O  teach  me  how!  Show  me  the  way! 
only  show  me.  —  O  mother,  mother !  —  If  it  were  paved 
with  fire,  show  me  the  way,  and  I  will  walk  it  bare-foot! 

Gaunt.  They  call  me  a  miser.  They  say  that  in  this 
sea-chest  of  mine  I  hoard  my  gold.  {He  passes  R.  to 
chest,  takes  out  key,  and  unlocks  it.)  They  think  my 
treasure  and  my  very  soul  are  locked  up  here.  They 
speak  after  the  flesh,  but  they  are  right.     See! 

Arethusa.  Her  watch  }  the  wedding  ring  }  O  father, 
forgive  me! 

Gaunt.  Ay,  her  watch  that  counted  the  hours  when 
I  was  away;  they  were  few  and  sorrowful,  my  Hester's 
'hours;  and  this  poor  contrivance  numbered  them.  The 
Ting  —  with  that  I  married  her.  This  chain,  it's  of 
Guinea  gold ;  I  brought  it  home  for  her,  the  year  before 
we  married,  and  she  wore  it  to  her  wedding.  It  was 
a  vanity :  they  are  all  vanities;  but  they  are  the  treasure 
of  my  soul.  Below  here,  see,  her  wedding  dress.  Ay, 
the  watch  has  stopped:  dead,  dead.     And  I  know  that 

377 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

my  Hester  died  of  me;  and  day  and  night,  asleep  and 
awake,  my  soul  abides  in  her  remembrance. 

Arethusa.  And  you  come  in  your  sleep  to  look  at 
them.  O  poor  father!  I  understand  —  I  understand 
you  now. 

Gaunt.  In  my  sleep?    Ay?  do  I  so?    My  Hester! 

Arethusa.  And  why,  why  did  you  not  tell  me?  I 
thought  —  I  was  like  the  rest!  —  I  feared  you  were  a 
miser.  O,  you  should  have  told  me;  I  should  have 
been  so  proud  —  so  proud  and  happy.  I  knew  you 
loved  her;  but  not  this,  not  this. 

Gaunt.  Why  should  I  have  spoken  ?  It  was  all  be- 
tween my  Hester  and  me. 

Arethusa.  Father,  may  I  speak?  May  I  tell  you 
what  my  heart  tells  me  ?  You  do  not  understand 
about  my  mother.  You  loved  her  —  O,  as  few  men 
can  love.  And  she  loved  you:  think  how  she  loved 
you!  In  this  world,  you  know  —  you  have  told  me  — 
there  is  nothing  perfect.  All  we  men  and  women  have 
our  sins;  and  they  are  a  pain  to  those  that  love  us,  and 
the  deeper  the  love,  the  crueller  the  pain.  That  is  life; 
and  it  is  life  we  ask,  not  heaven;  and  what  matter  for 
the  pain,  if  only  the  love  holds  on?  Her  love  held: 
then  she  was  happy!  Her  love  was  immortal;  and 
when  she  died,  her  one  grief  was  to  be  parted  from  you, 
her  one  hope  to  welcome  you  again. 

Gaunt.  And  you,  Arethusa:  I  was  to  bring  her  little 
maid. 

Arethusa.  God  bless  her,  yes,  and  me!  But,  father, 
can  you  not  see  that  she  was  blessed  among  women? 

Gaunt.  Child,  child,  you  speak  in  ignorance;  you 
touch  upon  griefs  you  cannot  fathom. 

378 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Arethusa.  No,  dearest,  no.  She  loved  you,  loved 
you  and  died  of  it.  Why  else  do  women  live  ?  What 
would  I  ask  but  just  to  love  my  Kit  and  die  for  him, 
and  look  down  from  heaven,  and  see  him  keep  my 
memory  holy  and  live  the  nobler  for  my  sake  ? 

Gaunt.  Ay,  do  you  so  love  him  ? 

Arethusa.  Even  as  my  mother  loved  my  father. 

Gaunt.  Ay  ?    Then  we  will  see.     What  right  have 

I You  are  your  mother's  child:    better,  tenderer, 

wiser  than  I.  Let  us  seek  guidance  in  prayer.  Good- 
night, my  little  maid. 

Arethusa.  O  father,  I  know  you  at  last. 

SCENE  II 

Gaunt  and  Arethusa  go  out,  L,  carrying  the  candles. 
Stage  dark.  A  distant  clock  chimes  the  quarters,  and 
strikes  one.  Then,  the  tap-tapping  of  Pew's  stick  is 
heard  without;  the  key  is  put  into  the  lock;  and  enter 
Pew,  C,  he  pockets  key,  and  is  followed  by  Kit,  with 
dark  lantern. 

Pew.  Quiet,  you  lubber!  Can't  you  foot  it  soft,  you 
that  has  daylights  and  a  glim  ? 

Kit.  All  right,  old  boy.  How  the  devil  did  we  get 
through  the  door  ?    Shall  I  knock  him  up  } 

Pew.  Stow  your  gab  {seizing  his  wrist).  Under  your 
breath ! 

Kit.  Avast  that!    You're  a  savage  dog,  aren't  you? 

Pew.  Turn  on  that  glim. 

Kit.  It's  as  right  as  a  trivet.  Pew.  What  next  I  hy 
George,  Pew,  I'll  make  your  fortune. 

379 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  Here,  now,  look  round  this  room,  and  sharp. 
D'ye  see  a  old  sea-chest  ? 

Kit.  See  it,  Pew  ?  why,  d'ye  think  I'm  blind  ? 

Pew.  Take  me  across,  and  let  me  feel  of  her.  Mum; 
catch  my  hand.  Ah,  that's  her  {feeling  the  chest),  that's 
the  Golden  Mary.  Now,  see  here,  my  bo,  if  you've 
the  pluck  of  a  weevil  in  a  biscuit,  this  girl  is  yours;  if 
you  hain't,  and  think  to  sheer  off,  I'm  blind,  but  I'm 
deadly. 

Kit.  You'll  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head  all  the 
same.  I'll  take  threats  from  nobody,  blind  or  not. 
Let's  knock  up  the  Admiral  and  be  done  with  it.  What 
I  want  is  to  get  rid  of  this  dark  lantern.  It  makes  me 
feel  like  a  housebreaker,  by  George. 

Pew  (seated  on  chest).  You  follow  this.  I'm  sick 
of  drinking  bilge,  when  I  might  be  rolling  in  my  coach, 
and  I'm  dog-sick  of  Jack  Gaunt.  Who's  he  to  be  wal- 
lowing in  gold,  when  a  better  man  is  groping  crusts  in 
the  gutter  and  spunging  for  rum  }  Now,  here  in  this 
blasted  chest  is  the  gold  to  make  men  of  us  for  life: 
gold,  ay,  gobs  of  it;  and  writin's  too  —  things  that  if  I 
had  the  proof  of  'em  I'd  hold  Jack  Gaunt  to  the  grind- 
stone till  his  face  was  flat.  I'd  have  done  it  single- 
handed;  but  I'm  blind,  worse  luck:  I'm  all  in  the 
damned  dark  here,  poking  with  a  stick  —  Lord,  burn 
up  with  lime  the  eyes  that  saw  it!  That's  why  I  raked 
up  you.  Come,  out  with  your  iron,  and  prise  the  lid 
off.  You  shall  touch  your  snack,  and  have  the  wench 
for  nothing;  ay,  and  fling  her  in  the  street,  when  done. 

Kit.  So  you  brought  me  here  to  steal,  did  you  ? 

Pew.  Ay  did  I;  and  you  shall.  I'm  a  biter:  I  bring 
blood. 

380 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Kit.  Now,  Pew,  you  came  here  on  my  promise,  or 
I'd  kill  you  like  a  rat.  As  it  is,  out  of  that  door!  One, 
two,  three  {drawing  his  cutlass),  and  off! 

Pew  {leaping  at  his  throat,  and  with  a  great  voice). 
Help!  murder!  thieves! 


SCENE    III 

To  these  Arethusa,  Gaunt,  with  lights.    Stage  light. 
Pew  has  Kit  down,  and  is  throttling  him 

Pew.  I've  got  him,  Cap'n.  What,  kill  my  old  com- 
mander, and  rob  him  of  his  blessed  child  ?  Not  with 
old  Pew! 

Gaunt.  Get  up,  David:  can't  you  see  you're  killing 
him  }   Unhand,  I  say. 

Arethusa.  In  heaven's  name,  who  is  it  ? 

Pew.  It's  a  damned  villain,  my  pretty;  and  his  name, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  is  French. 

Arethusa.  Kit?   Kit  French  ?   Never! 

Kit  {rising).  He's  done  for  me.     {Falls  on  chest.) 

[Pew.  Don't  you  take  on  about  him,  ducky;  he  ain't 
worth  it.  Cap'n  Gaunt,  I  took  him  and  I  give  him  up. 
You  was  'ard  on  me  this  morning,  Cap'n:  this  is  my 
way — Pew's  way,  this  is  —  of  paying  of  you  out. 

Arethusa.  Father,  this  is  the  blind  man  that  came 
while  you  were  abroad.  Sure  you'll  not  listen  to  him. 
And  you.  Kit,  you,  what  is  this  ? 

Kit.  Captain  Gaunt,  that  blind  devil  has  half-throttled 
me.  He  brought  me  here  —  I  can't  speak — he  has 
almost  killed  me  —  and  I'd  been  drinking  too. 

Gaunt.  And  you,  David  Pew,  what  do  you  say  ?] 
381 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Pew.  Cap'n,  the  rights  of  it  is  this.  Me  and  that 
young  man  there  was  partaking  in  a  friendly  drop  of 
rum  at  the  Admiral  Benbow  inn;  and  I'd  just  proposed 
his  blessed  Majesty,  when  the  young  man  he  ups  and 
says  to  me:  "Pew,"  he  says,  "I  like  you,  Pew:  you're 
a  true  seaman,"  he  says;  "and  I'm  one  as  sticks  at 
nothing;  and  damme.  Pew,"  he  says,  "I'll  make  your 
fortune."  [Can  he  deny  as  them  was  his  words  }  Look 
at  him,  you  as  has  eyes:  no,  he  cannot.  "Come  along 
of  me,"  he  says,  "  and  damme,  I'll  make  your  fortune."] 
Well,  Cap'n,  he  lights  a  dark  lantern  (which  you'll  find 
it  somewhere  on  the  floor,  I  reckon),  and  out  we  goes, 
me  follerin'  his  lead,  as  I  thought  was  'art-of-oak  and  a 
true-blue  mariner;  and  the  next  I  knows  is,  here  we 
was  in  here,  and  him  a-askin'  me  to  'old  the  glim,  while 
he  prised  the  lid  off  of  your  old  sea-chest  with  his 
cutlass. 

Gaunt.  The  chest?  {He  leaps,  R.,  and  examines 
chest)     Ah! 

Pew.  Leastways,  I  was  to  *elp  him,  by  his  account 
of  it,  while  he  nailed  the  rhino,  and  then  took  and  car- 
ried off  that  lovely  maid  of  yours;  for  a  lovely  maid  she 
is,  and  one  as  touched  old  Pew's  'art.  Cap'n,  when  I 
*eard  that,  my  blood  biled.  "Young  man,"  I  says, 
"you  don't  know  David  Pew,"  I  says;  and  with  that 
I  ups  and  does  my  dooty  by  him,  cutlass  and  all,  like  a 
lion-'arted  seaman,  though  blind.  [And  then  in  comes 
you,  and  I  gives  him  up:  as  you  know  for  a  fack  is 
true,  and  I'll  subscribe  at  the  Assizes.  And  that,  if  you 
was  to  cut  me  into  junks,  is  the  truth,  the  'ole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth,  world  without  end,  so  help 
me,  amen;  and  if  you'll  'and  me  over  the  'oly  Bible,  me 

382 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

not  having  such  a  thing  about  me  at  the  moment,  why, 
I'll  put  a  oath  upon  it  like  a  man.] 

Arethusa.  Father,  have  you  heard  ? 

[Gaunt.  I  know  this  man,  Arethusa,  and  the  truth 
is  not  in  him. 

Arethusa.  Well,  and  why  do  we  wait  ?  We  know 
Kit,  do  we  not  ? 

Kit.  Ay,  Captain,  you  know  the  pair  of  us,  and  you 
can  see  his  face  and  mine.] 

Gaunt.  Christopher,  the  facts  are  all  against  you.  I 
find  you  here  in  my  house  at  midnight:  you  who  at 
least  had  eyes  to  see,  and  must  have  known  whither 
you  were  going.  It  was  this  man,  not  you,  who  called 
me  up:  and  when  I  came  in,  it  was  he  who  was  upper- 
most and  who  gave  you  up  to  justice.  This  unsheathed 
cutlass  is  yours;  there  hangs  the  scabbard,  empty;  and 
as  for  the  dark  lantern,  of  what  use  is  light  to  the  blind  ? 
and  who  could  have  trimmed  and  lighted  it  but  you  ^ 

Pew.  Ah,  Cap'n,  what  a  'ed  for  argyment! 

Kit.  And  now,  sir,  that  you  have  spoken,  I  claim 
the  liberty  to  speak  on  my  side. 

Gaunt.  Not  so.  I  will  first  have  done  with  this 
man.  David  Pew,  it  were  too  simple  to  believe  your 
story  as  you  tell  it;  but  I  can  find  no  testimony  against 
you.  From  whatever  reason,  assuredly  you  have  done 
me  service.  Here  are  five  guineas  to  set  you  on  your 
way.  Begone  at  once;  and  while  it  is  yet  time,  think 
upon  your  repentance. 

Pew.  Cap'n,  here's  my  respecks.  You've  turned  a 
pious  man,  Cap'n;  it  does  my  'art  good  to  'ear  you. 
But  you  ain't  the  only  one.  O  no!  I  came  about  and 
paid  off  on  the  other  tack  before  you,  I  reckon :  you 

383 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

ask  the  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet  else,  as  called  me  on  the 
quarter-deck  before  old  Admiral  'Awke  himself  {touch- 
ing his  hat),  my  old  commander.  ["David  Pew,"  he- 
says,  "  five-and-thirty  year  have  I  been  in  this  trade, 
man  and  boy,"  that  chaplain  says,  "  and  damme.  Pew," 
says  he,  **  if  ever  I  seen  the  seaman  that  could  rattle  off 
his  catechism  within  fifty  mile  of  you.  Here's  five 
guineas  out  of  my  own  pocket,"  he  says;  "and  what's 
more  to  the  pint,"  he  says,  "Til  speak  to  my  reverend 
brother-in-law,  the  Bishop  of  Dover,"  he  says;  "and 
if  ever  you  leave  the  sea,  and  wants  a  place  as  beadle, 
why  damme,"  says  he,  "you  go  to  him,  for  you're  the 
man  for  him,  and  him  for  you." 

Gaunt.  David  Pew,  you  never  set  your  foot  on  a 
King's  ship  in  all  your  life.     There  lies  the  road. 

Pew.  Ah,  you  was  always  a  'ard  man,  Cap'n,  and  a 
'ard  man  to  believe,  like  Didymus  the  'Ebrew  prophet. 
But  it's  time  for  me  to  go,  and  I'll  be  going.  My  ser- 
vice to  you,  Cap'n :  and  I  kiss  my  *and  to  that  lovely 
female.     (Singing)  — 

'*  Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  for  us  to  go. 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go." 

SCENE  IV 

Kit,  Arethusa,  Gaunt 

Arethusa.  Now,  Kit  ? 
Kit.  Well,  sir,  and  now  ? 

Gaunt.  I  find  you  here  in  my  house  at  this  untimely 
and  unseemly  hour;  I  find  you  there  in  company  with 

384 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

one  who,  to  my  assured  knowledge,  should  long  since 
have  swung  in  the  wind  at  Execution  Dock.  What 
brought  you  ?  Why  did  you  open  my  door  while  I 
slept  to  such  a  companion?  Christopher  French,  I 
have  two  treasures.  One  {laying  his  hand  on  Are- 
thusa's  shoulder)  I  know  you  covet:  Christopher,  is 
this  your  love  ? 

Kit.  Sir,  I  have  been  fooled  and  trapped.  That  man 
declared  he  knew  you,  declared  he  could  make  you 
change  your  mind  about  our  marriage.  I  was  drunk, 
sir,  and  I  believed  him:  heaven  knows  I  am  sober  now, 
and  can  see  my  folly;  but  1  believed  him  then,  and 
followed  him.  He  brought  me  here,  he  told  me  your 
chest  was  full  of  gold  that  would  make  men  of  us  for 
life.  At  that  I  saw  my  fault,  sir,  and  drew  my  cutlass ; 
and  he,  in  the  wink  of  an  eye,  roared  out  for  help, 
leaped  at  my  throat  like  a  weasel  and  had  me  rolling 
on  the  floor.  He  was  quick,  and  I,  as  I  tell  you,  sir, 
was  off  my  balance. 

Gaunt.  Is  this  man.  Pew,  your  enemy  ? 

Kit.  No,  sir;  I  never  saw  him  till  to-night. 

Gaunt.  Then,  if  you  must  stand  the  justice  of  your 
country,  come  to  the  proof  with  a  better  plea.  What.^ 
lantern  and  cutlass  yours;  you  the  one  that  knew  the 
house;  you  the  one  that  saw;  you  the  one  overtaken 
and  denounced;  and  you  spin  me  a  galley  yarn  like 
that  ?  If  that  is  all  your  defence,  you'll  hang,  sir, 
hang. 

Arethusa.  Ah!  .  .  .  Father,  I  give  him  up:  I  will 
never  see  him,  never  speak  to  him,  never  think  of 
him  again;  I  take  him  from  my  heart;  I  give  my- 
self wholly  up  to  you  and  to  my  mother;  I  will  obey 

385 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

you  in  every  point  —  O,  not  at  a  word  merely  —  at  a 
finger  raised!  I  will  do  all  this;  I  will  do  anything  — 
anything  you  bid  me;  I  swear  it  in  the  face  of  heaven. 
Only  —  Kit !   1  love  him,  father,  I  love  him.    Let  him  go. 

[Gaunt.  Go  ? 

Arethusa.  You  let  the  other.  Open  the  door  again 
—  for  my  sake,  father  —  in  my  mother's  name  —  O, 
open  the  door  and  let  him  go.] 

Kit.  Let  me  go  ?  My  girl,  if  you  had  cast  me  out 
this  morning,  good  and  well:  I  would  have  left  you, 
though  it  broke  my  heart.  But  it's  a  changed  story 
now;  now  I'm  down  on  my  luck,  and  you  come  and 
stab  me  from  behind.  I  ask  no  favour,  and  I'll  take 
none;  I  stand  here  on  my  innocence,  and  God  helping 
me  I'll  clear  my  good  name,  and  get  your  love  again, 
if  it's  love  worth  having.  [Now,  Captain  Gaunt,  I've 
said  my  say,  and  you  may  do  your  pleasure.  I  am  my 
father's  son,  and  I  never  feared  to  face  the  truth. 

Gaunt.  You  have  spoken  like  a  man,  French,  and 
you  may  go.     1  leave  you  free. 

Kit.  Nay,  sir,  not  so:  not  with  my  will.  I'm  ac- 
cused and  counted  guilty;  the  proofs  are  against  me; 
the  girl  1  love  has  turned  upon  me.  I'll  accept  no 
mercy  at  your  hands.]  Captain  Gaunt,  I  am  your 
prisoner. 

Arethusa.  Kit,  dear  Kit 

Gaunt.  Silence!  Young  man,  I  have  offered  you 
liberty  without  bond  or  condition.  You  refuse.  You 
shall  be  judged.  Meanwhile  {opening  the  door,  R.), 
you  will  go  in  here.  I  keep  your  cutlass.  The  night 
brings  counsel:  to-morrow  shall  decide.  (He  locks 
Kit  in,  leaving  the  key  in  the  door. ) 

586 


ADMIRAL   GUINEA 

SCENE  V 
Gaunt,  Arethusa,  afterwards  Pew 

Arethusa.  Father,  you  believe  in  him;  you  do;  I 
know  you  do. 

Gaunt.  Child,  I  am  not  given  to  be  hasty.  I  will 
pray  and  sleep  upon  this  matter.  {A  knocking  at  the 
door,  C.)     Who  knocks  so  late  ?    {He  opens.) 

Pew  {entering).  Cap'n,  shall  I  fetch  the  constable  ? 

Gaunt.  No. 

Pew.  No  ?    Have  ye  killed  him  ? 

Gaunt.  My  man,  I'll  see  you  into  the  road.  {He 
takes  Pew  by  the  arm,  and  goes  out  with  him,) 

SCENE  VI 

Arethusa 

Arethusa.  {Listens ;  then  running  to  door,  R.)  Kit 
—  dearest  Kit !  wait !  I  will  come  to  you  soon.  (Gaunt 
re-enter Sy  C,  as  the  drop  falls,) 


^7 


ACT  IV 

The  Stage  represents  the  /tdmiraVs  bouse,  as  in  A£ls  J.  and  III,  A 
chair,  L,  in  front.  As  the  curtain  rises,  the  Stage  is  dark.  En^ 
ter  Arethusa,  L,  with  candle  ;  she  lights  another  ;  and  passes  to 
door  J  R.,  which  she  unbolts.     Stage  light 

SCENE   I 
Arethusa,  Kit 

Arethusa.  Come,  dear  Kit,  come! 

Kit.  Well,  I'm  here. 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  you  are  not  angry  with  me  ? 

Kit.  Have  I  reason  to  be  pleased  ? 

Arethusa.  Kit,  I  was  wrong.     Forgive  me. 

Kit.  O  yes.  I  forgive  you.  I  suppose  you  meant  it 
kindly;  but  there  are  some  kindnesses  a  man  would 
rather  die  than  take  a  gift  of.  When  a  man  is  accused, 
Arethusa,  it  is  not  that  he  fears  the  gallows  —  it's  the 
shame  that  cuts  him.  At  such  a  time  as  that,  the  way 
to  help  was  to  stand  to  your  belief.  You  should  have 
nailed  my  colours  to  the  mast,  not  spoke  of  striking 
them.  If  I  were  to  be  hanged  to-morrow,  and  your 
love  there,  and  a  free  pardon  and  a  dukedom  on  the 
other  side  —  which  would  I  choose? 

Arethusa.  Kit,  you  must  judge  me  fairly.  It  was 
not  my  life  that  was  at  stake,  it  was  yours.  Had  it 
been  mine  —  mine,  Kit  —  what  had  you  done,  then  ? 

388 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Kit.  I  am  a  downright  fool;  I  saw  it  inside  out 
Why,  give  you  up,  by  George! 

Arethusa.  Ah,  you  see!  Now  you  understand.  It 
was  all  pure  love.  When  he  said  that  word  —  O!  — 
death  and  that  disgrace!  .  .  .  But  I  know  my  father. 
He  fears  nothing  so  much  as  the  goodness  of  his  heart; 
and  yet  it  conquers.  He  would  pray,  he  said;  and  to- 
night, and  by  the  kindness  of  his  voice,  I  knew  he  was 
convinced  already.  All  that  is  wanted,  is  that  you 
should  forgive  me. 

Kit.  Arethusa,  if  you  looked  at  me  like  that  Vd  for- 
give you  piracy  on  the  high  seas.  I  was  only  sulky;  I 
was  boxed  up  there  in  the  black  dark,  and  couldn't  see 
my  hand.    It  made  me  pity  that  blind  man,  by  George! 

Arethusa.  O,  that  blind  man !  The  fiend !  He  came 
back,  Kit:  did  you  hear  him?  he  thought  we  had 
killed  you  —  you! 

Kit.  Well,  well,  it  serves  me  right  for  keeping  com- 
pany with  such  a  swab. 

Arethusa.  One  thing  puzzles  me:  how  did  you  get 
in  ?    I  saw  my  father  lock  the  door. 

Kit.  Ah,  how  ?  That's  just  it.  I  was  a  sheet  in  the 
wind,  you  see.  How  did  we?  He  did  it  somehow, 
...  By  George,  he  had  a  key !    He  can  get  in  again. 

Arethusa.  Again  ?  that  man ! 

Kit.  Ay,  can  he!     Again!    When  he  likes! 

Arethusa.  Kit,  I  am  afraid.  O  Kit,  he  will  kill  my 
father. 

Kit.  Afraid.  I'm  glad  of  that.  Now,  you'll  see  I'm 
worth  my  salt  at  something.  Ten  to  one  he's  back  to 
Mrs.  Drake's.     I'll  after,  and  lay  him  aboard. 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  he  is  too  strong  for  you. 
389 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Kit.  Arethusa,  that's  below  the  belt!  Never  you 
fear;  I'll  give  a  good  account  of  him. 

Arethusa  {taking  cutlass  from  the  wall).  You'll  be 
none  the  worse  for  this,  dear. 

Kit.  That's  so  {making  cuts).  All  the  same,  I'm  half 
ashamed  to  draw  on  a  blind  man;  it's  too  much  odds. 
{He  leans  suddenly  against  the  table.)    Ah ! 

Arethusa.  Kit!    Are  you  ill  ? 

Kit.  My  head's  like  a  humming  top;  it  serves  me 
right  for  drinking. 

Arethusa.  O,  and  the  blind  man!  {She  runs,  L, 
to  the  corner  cupboard,  brings  a  bottle  and  glass,  and 
fills  and  offers  glass.)     Here,  lad,  drink  that. 

Kit.  To  you !  That's  better.  {Bottle  and  glass  re- 
main  on  G aunt's  table.) 

Arethusa.  Suppose  you  miss  him  ? 

Kit.  Miss  him!  The  road  is  straight;  and  I  can 
hear  the  tap-tapping  of  that  stick  a  mile  away. 

Arethusa  {listening).  St!  my  father  is  stirring  in 
his  room ! 

Kit.  Let  me  get  clear;  tell  him  why  when  I'm  gone. 
The  door } 

Arethusa.  Locked! 

Kit.  The  window! 

Arethusa.  Quick,  quick !  {She  unfastens  R.  window, 
by  which  Kit  goes  out.) 

SCENE  II 

Arethusa,  Gaunt  entering  L 

Arethusa.  Father,  Kit  is  gone.  ...  He  is  asleep. 
Gaunt.  Waiting,  waiting  and  wearying.    The  years, 
390 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

they  go  so  heavily,  my  Hester  still  waiting!  {He goes 
R.  to  chest,  which  he  opens.)  That  is  your  chain;  it's 
of  Guinea  gold ;  I  brought  it  you  from  Guinea.  ( Taking 
out  chain.)  You  liked  it  once;  it  pleased  you  long  ago; 
O,  why  not  now  —  why  will  you  not  be  happy  now? 
...  I  swear  this  is  my  last  voyage;  see,  I  lay  my  hand 
upon  the  Holy  Book  and  swear  it.  One  more  venture 
—  for  the  child's  sake,  Hester;  you  don't  think  upon 
your  little  maid. 

Arethusa.  Ah,  for  my  sake,  it  was  for  my  sake ! 

Gaunt.  Ten  days  out  from  Lagos.  That's  a  strange 
sunset,  Mr.  Yeo.  All  hands  shorten  sail!  Lay  aloft  there, 
look  smart!  .  .  .  What's  that.?  Only  the  negroes  in 
the  hold.  .  .  .  Mr.  Yeo,  she  can't  live  long  at  this;  I 
have  a  wife  and  child  in  Barnstaple.  .  .  .  Christ,  what 
a  sea!  Hold  on,  for  God's  sake  —  hold  on  fore  and  aft! 
Great  God !  {as.  though  the  sea  were  making  a  breach  over 
the  ship  at  the  moment). 

Arethusa.  O! 

Gaunt.  They  seem  quieter  down  below  there.  .  .  . 
No  water  —  no  light  —  no  air — seven  days  battened 
down,  and  the  seas  mountain  high,  and  the  ship  labour- 
ing hell-deep!  Two  hundred  and  five,  two  hundred 
and  five,  two  hundred  and  five  —  all  to  eternal  torture! 

Arethusa.  O  pity  him,  pity  him !  Let  him  sleep,  let 
him  forget!  Let  her  prayers  avail  in  heaven,  and  let 
him  rest! 

Gaunt.  Hester,  no,  don't  smile  at  me.  Rather  tears! 
I  have  seen  you  weep  —  often,  often ;  two  hundred  and 
five  times.  Two  hundred  and  five!  {With  ring.)  Hester, 
here  is  your  ring  {he  tries  to  put  the  ring  on  his  finger). 
How  comes  it  in  my  hand  ?   Not  fallen  off  again  ?   O 

39^ 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

no,  impossible!  it  was  made  smaller,  dear,  it  can't  have 
fallen  off!  Ah,  you  waste  away.  You  must  live,  you 
must,  for  the  dear  child's  sake,  for  mine,  Hester,  for 
mine!  Ah,  the  child.  Yes.  Who  am  I  to  judge?  Poor 
Kit  French!  And  she,  your  little  maid,  she's  like  you, 
Hester,  and  she  will  save  him!  How  should  a  man  be 
saved  without  a  wife  ? 

Arethusa.  O  father,  if  you  could  but  hear  me  thank 
and  bless  you!  (  The  tapping  of  Pew's  stick  is  heard  ap- 
proaching.    Gaunt  passes  L.  front  and  sits. ) 

Gaunt  {beginning  to  count  the  taps).  One  —  two  — 
two  hundred  and  five 

Arethusa  {listening).  God  help  me,  the  blind  man! 
{She  runs  to  door,  C;  the  hey  is  put  into  the  lock  from 
without,  and  the  door  opens.) 

SCENE  III 

Arethusa  {at  back  of  stage  by  the  door) ;  Gaunt  {front 
L.);  to  these,  Pew,  C. 

Pew  {sotto  voce).  All  snug.  {Coming  down.)  So  that 
was  you,  my  young  friend  Christopher,  as  shot  by  me 
on  the  road;  and  so  you  was  hot  foot  after  old  Pew? 
Christopher,  my  young  friend,  I  reckon  I'll  have  the 
bowels  out  of  that  chest,  and  I  reckon  you'll  be  lagged 
and  scragged  for  it.  {y4t  these  words  Arethusa  locks 
the  door,  and  takes  the  key.)  What's  that?  All  still. 
There's  something  wrong  about  this  room.  Pew,  my 
'art  of  oak,  you're  queer  to-night;  brace  up,  and  carry 
on.  Where's  the  tool  ?  {Producing  knife.)  Ah,  here 
she  is;  and  now  for  the  chest;  and  the  gold;  and  rum 

392 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

—  rum  —  rum.  What!  Open?  ...  old  clothes,  by 
God!  .  .  .  He's  done  me;  he's  been  before  me;  he's 
bolted  with  the  swag;  that's  why  he  ran:  Lord  wither 
and  waste  him  forty  year  for  it!  O  Christopher,  if  I  had 
my  fingers  on  your  throat!  Why  didn't  I  strangle  the 
soul  out  of  him  ?  I  heard  the  breath  squeak  in  his  wea- 
sand;  and  Jack  Gaunt  pulled  me  off.  Ah,  Jack,  that's 
another  I  owe  you.  My  pious  friend,  if  I  was  God  Al- 
mighty for  five  minutes !  (Gaunt  rises  and  begins  to  pace 
the  stage  like  a  quarterdeck,  L.)  What's  that.?  A  man's 
walk.  He  don't  see  me,  thank  the  blessed  dark!  But 
it's  time  to  slip,  my  bo.  {He  gropes  his  way  stealthily 
till  he  comes  to  Gaunt' s  table,  where  he  burns  his  hand 
in  the  candle.)  A  candle — lighted  —  then  it's  bright  as 
day!  Lord  God,  doesn't  he  see  me?  It's  the  horrors 
come  alive.  (Gaunt  draws  near  and  turns  away.)  I'll 
go  mad,  mad!  {He  gropes  to  the  door,  stopping  and 
starting.)  Door.  {His  voice  rising  for  the  first  time, 
sharp  with  terror.)  Locked?  Key  gone?  Trapped! 
Keep  off — keep  off  of  me — keep  away!  {Sotto  voce 
again.)  Keep  your  head.  Lord  have  mercy,  keep  your 
head.  I'm  wet  with  sweat.  What  devil's  den  is  this  ? 
I  must  out  —  out !  {He  shakes  the  door  vehemently.)  No  ? 
Knife  it  is  then  —  knife  —  knife —  knife !  {He  moves  with 
the  knife  raised  towards  Gaunt,  intently  listening  and 
changing  his  diredlion  as  Gaunt  changes  his  position  on 
the  stage. ) 

Arethusa  {rushing  to  intercept  him).  Father,  father, 
wake! 

Gaunt.  Hester,  Hester!  {He  turns,  in  time  to  see 
Arethusa  grapple  Pew  in  the  centre  of  the  Stage,  and 
?E\N  force  her  down.) 

393 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

Arethusa.  Kit!   Kit! 

Pew  {with  the  knife  raised).     Pew's  way! 

SCENE  IV 

To  these,  Kit 

{He  leaps  through  window,  R.,  and  cuts  Pew  down. 
At  the  same  moment,  Gaunt,  who  has  heen  staring  help-' 
lessly  at  his  daughter's  peril,  fully  awakes.) 

Gaunt.  Death  and  blood!  (Kit,  helping  Akethvsa, 
has  let  fall  the  cutlass.  Gaunt  picks  it  up  and  runs  on 
Pew.)  Damned  mutineer,  I'll  have  your  heart  out! 
{He  stops,  stands  staring,  drops  cutlass,  falls  upon  his 
knees.)  God  forgive  me!  Ah,  foul  sins,  would  you 
blaze  forth  again  ?  Lord,  close  your  ears !  Hester, 
Hester,  hear  me  not!  Shall  all  these  years  and  tears  be 
unavailing? 

Arethusa.  Father,  I  am  not  hurt. 

Gaunt.  Ay,  daughter,  but  my  soul  —  my  lost  soul! 

Pew  {rising  on  his  elbow).  Rum  ?  You've  done  me. 
For  God's  sake,  rum.  (Arethusa  pours  out  a  glass, 
which  Kyv  gives  to  iim.)  Rum?  This  ain't  rum;  it's 
fire!  {With  great  excitement.)  What's  this  ?  I  don't 
like  rum  ?  {Feebly.)  Ay,  then,  I'm  a  dead  man,  and 
give  me  water. 

Gaunt.  Now  even  his  sins  desert  him. 

Pew  {drinking  water).  Jack  Gaunt,  you've  always 
been  my  rock  ahead.  It's  thanks  to  you  I've  got  my 
papers,  and  this  time  I'm  shipped  for  Fiddler's  Green. 
Admiral,  we  ain't  like  to  meet  again,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  toast:  Here's  Fiddler's  Green,  and  damn  all  lubbers! 

394 


ADMIRAL  GUINEA 

{Seizing  Gaunt's  arm.)  I  say  —  fair  dealings,  Jack !  — 
none  of  that  heaven  business:  Fiddler's  Green's  my 
port,  now,  ain't  it  ? 

Gaunt.  David,  you've  hove  short  up,  and  God  for- 
bid that  I  deceive  you.  Pray,  man,  pray;  for  in  the 
place  to  which  you  are  bound  there  is  no  mercy  and 
no  hope. 

Pew.  Ay,  my  lass,  you're  black,  but  your  blood's 
red,  and  I'm  all  a-muck  with  it.  Pass  the  rum,  and  be 
damned  to  you.     ( Trying  to  sing)  — 

"  Time  for  us  io  go. 
Time  for  us " 

{He  dies.) 

Gaunt.  But  for  the  grace  of  God,  there  lies  John 
Gaunt!  Christopher,  you  have  saved  my  child;  and 
I,  I,  that  was  blinded  with  self-righteousness,  have 
fallen.    Take  her,  Christopher;  but  0,  walk  humbly! 

curtain 


395 


MACAIRE 

A  MELODRAMATIC  FARCE  IN  THREE  ACTS 


Oopyrlght,  1895,  by  Stone  &,  'KSxabalL 
Copyright,  1808,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sena 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


Robert  Macaire. 

Bertrand. 

DuMONT,  Landlord  of  the  Auberge  dea  Adrets. 

Charles,  a  Gendarme,  Dumont's  supposed  son. 

GORIOT. 

The  MARQyis,  Charles's  Father. 

The  Brigadier  of  Gendarmerie. 

The  Curate. 

The  Notary. 

A  Waiter. 

Ernestine,  Goriot's  Daughter. 

Aline. 

Maids,  Peasants  {Male  and  Female),  Gendarmes. 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  the  Courtyard  of  the  Auherge  des  Adrets,  on  the 
frontier  of  France  and  Savoy.  The  time  1820.  The  action  occupies 
an  interval  of  from  twelve  to  fourteen  hours  :  from  four  in  the  after- 
noon  till  about  five  in  the  morning. 


Mote  —  The  time  between  the  acts  should  be  as  brief  as  possible,  and 
the  piece  played,  where  it  is  merely  comic,  in  a  vein  of  patter. 


ACT  I 

The  Stage  represents  the  courtyard  of  the  Auberge  des  Adrets.  It  is 
surrounded  bj>  the  buildings  of  the  inn,  -with  a  gallery  on  the  first 
story,  approached,  C,  by  a  straight  flight  of  stairs.  L.  C,  the  en- 
trance doorway.  A  little  in  front  of  this,  a  small  grated  office, 
containing  business  table,  brass-bound  cabinet,  and  portable  cash- 
box.  In  front,  R.  and  L.,  tables  and  benches  ;  one,  L.,  partially 
laid  for  a  considerable  party 

SCENE  I 

Aline  and  Maids;  to  whom  Fiddlers;  afterwards 
DuMONT  and  Charles.  As  the  curtain  rises,  the  sound 
of  the  violins  is  heard  approaching.  Aline  and  the  inn 
servants,  who  are  discovered  laying  the  table,  dance  up 
to  door  L.  C,  to  meet  the  Fiddlers,  who  enter  like- 
wise dancing  to  their  own  music.  Air :  *'  Haste  to  the 
Wedding. ' '  The  Fiddlers  exeunt  playing  into  home, 
R.  U.  E.  Aline  and  Maids  dance  back  to  table,  which 
they  proceed  to  arrange 

Aline.  Well,  give  me  fiddles:  fiddles  and  a  wedding 
feast.  It  tickles  your  heart  till  your  heels  make  a  run- 
away match  of  it.  I  don't  mind  extra  work,  I  don't, 
so  long  as  there's  fun  about  it.  Hand  me  up  that  pile  of 
plates.  The  quinces  there,  before  the  bride.  Stick  a 
pink  in  the  Notary's  glass :  that's  the  girl  he's  courting. 

DuMONT  (entering  ;  with  Charles).  Good  girls,  good 
399 


MACAIRE 

girls!  Charles,  in  ten  minutes  from  now  what  happy 
faces  will  smile  around  that  board! 

Charles.  Sir,  my  good  fortune  is  complete;  and 
most  of  all  in  this,  that  my  happiness  has  made  my 
father  happy. 

DuMONT.  Your  father?  Ah,  well,  upon  that  point 
we  shall  have  more  to  say. 

Charles.  What  more  remains  that  has  not  been  said 
already  ?  For  surely,  sir,  there  are  few  sons  more  for- 
tunate in  their  father:  and,  since  you  approve  of  this 
marriage,  may  1  not  conceive  you  to  be  in  that  sense 
fortunate  in  your  son  ? 

DuMONT.  Dear  boy,  there  is  always  a  variety  of  con- 
siderations. But  the  moment  is  ill  chosen  for  dispute; 
to-night,  at  least,  let  our  felicity  be  unalloyed.  {Look- 
ing off  L.  C.)  Our  guests  arrive:  here  is  our  good 
Curate,  and  here  our  cheerful  Notary. 

Charles.  His  old  infirmity,  I  fear. 

DuMONT.  But  Charles  —  dear  boy!  —  at  your  wed- 
ding feast!  I  should  have  taken  it  unneighbourly  had 
he  come  strictly  sober. 

SCENE  II 

To  these,  by  the  door  L  C,  the  Curate  and  the  No- 
tary, arm  in  arm;  the  latter  owl-like  and  titubant 

Curate.  Peace  be  on  this  house! 

Notary  {singing).  **  Prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass." 

DuMONT.  Welcome,  excellent  neighbours !  The 
Church  and  the  Law. 

Curate.  And  you,  Charles,  let  me  hope  your  feelings 
are  in  solemn  congruence  with  this  momentous  step. 

400 


MACAIRE 

Notary,  {digging  Charles  in  the  ribs).  Married? 
Lovely  bride  ?    Prove  an  excuse! 

DuMONT  {to  Curate).  I  fear  our  friend  ?  perhaps  ?  as 
usual  ?  eh  ? 

Curate.  Possibly :  I  had  not  yet  observed  it. 

DuMONT.  Well,  well,  his  heart  is  good. 

Curate.  He  doubtless  meant  it  kindly. 

Notary.  Where's  Aline  ? 

Aline.  Coming,  sir!    {I^otaky  makes  for  her,) 

Curate  {capturing  bim).  You  will  infallibly  expose 
yourself  to  misconstruction.  {To  Charles.)  Where  is 
your  commanding  officer  ? 

Charles.  Why,  sir,  we  have  quite  an  alert.  Infor- 
mation has  been  received  from  Lyons  that  the  notorious 
malefactor,  Robert  Macaire,  has  broken  prison,  and  the 
Brigadier  is  now  scouring  the  country  in  his  pursuit. 
I  myself  am  instructed  to  watch  the  visitors  to  our 
house. 

DuMONT.  That  will  do,  Charles:  you  may  go.  {Exit 
Charles.)  You  have  considered  the  case  I  laid  before 
you? 

Notary.  Considered  a  case  ? 

DuMONT.  Yes,  yes.  Charles,  you  know,  Charles. 
Can  he  marry  ?  under  these  untoward  and  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances, can  he  marry  ? 

Notary.  Now,  lemme  tell  you:  marriage  is  a  contract 
to  which  there  are  two  constracting  parties.  That  be- 
ing clear,  I  am  prepared  to  argue  categorically  that  your 
son  Charles  —  who,  it  appears,  is  not  your  son  Charles 
—  I  am  prepared  to  argue  that  one  party  to  a  contract 
being  null  and  void,  the  other  party  to  a  contract  cannot 
by  law  oblige  or  constrain  the  first  party  to  constract  or 

401 


MACAIRE 

bind  himself  to  any  contract,  except  the  other  party  be 
able  to  see  his  way  clearly  to  constract  himself  with 
him.     I  donno  if  1  make  myself  clear? 

DUMONT.    No. 

Notary.  Now,  lemme  tell  you:  by  applying  justice 
of  peace  might  possibly  afford  relief. 

DuMONT.  But  how  ? 

Notary.  Ay,  there's  the  rub. 

DuMONT.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  He's  not  my  son,  I 
tell  you :  Charles  is  not  my  son. 

Notary.  I  know. 

DuMONT.  Perhaps  a  glass  of  wine  would  clear  him  ? 

Notary.  That's  what  I  want.  {They go  out,  L.  U.  E.) 

Aline.  And  now,  if  you've  done  deranging  my  table, 
to  the  cellar  for  the  wine,  the  whole  pack  of  you.  {Ma- 
net sola,  considering  table.)  There:  it's  like  a  garden. 
If  I  had  as  sweet  a  table  for  my  wedding,  I  would 
marry  the  Notary. 

SCENE  III 

The  Stage  remains  vacant.  Enter,  by  door  L.  C, 
Macaire,  followed  by  Bertrand  with  the  bundle  ;  in  the 
traditional  costume 

Macaire.  Good !    No  police. 

Bertrand  {looking  off,  L.  C).  Sold  again! 

Macaire.  This  is  a  favoured  spot,  Bertrand:  ten 
minutes  from  the  frontier:  ten  minutes  from  escape. 
Blessings  on  that  frontier  line!  The  criminal  hops 
across,  and  lo!  the  reputable  man.  {Reading)  "Au- 
berge  des  Adrets,  by  John  Paul  Dumont."    A  table  set 

403 


MACAIRE 

for  company;  this  is  fate:  Bertrand,  are  we  the  first  ar- 
rivals? An  office;  a  cabinet;  a  cash-box  —  aha!  and 
a  cash-box,  golden  within.  A  money-box  is  like  a 
Quaker  beauty:  demure  without,  but  what  a  figure  of 
a  woman!  Outside  gallery:  an  architectural  feature  I 
approve;  I  count  it  a  convenience  both  for  love  and 
war:   the  troubadour — twang-twang;   the  craftsman 

{Makes  as  if  turning  key.)     The  kitchen  window : 

humming  with  cookery;  truffles,  before  Jove!  I  was 
born  for  truffles.  Cock  your  hat:  meat,  wine,  rest, 
and  occupation ;  men  to  gull,  women  to  fool,  and  still 
the  door  open,  the  great  unbolted  door  of  the  frontier! 

Bertrand.  Macaire,  I'm  hungry. 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  excuse  me,  you  are  a  sensualist. 
I  should  have  left  you  in  the  stone -yard  at  Lyons,  and 
written  no  passport  but  my  own.  Your  soul  is  incor- 
porate with  your  stomach.  Am  I  not  hungry,  too  ? 
My  body,  thanks  to  immortal  Jupiter,  is  but  the  boy 
that  holds  the  kite-string;  my  aspirations  and  designs 
swim  like  the  kite  sky-high,  and  overlook  an  empire. 

Bertrand.  If  I  could  get  a  full  meal  and  a  pound  in 
my  pocket  I  would  hold  my  tongue. 

Macaire.  Dreams,  dreams!  We  are  what  we  are; 
and  what  are  we  }  Who  are  you  }  who  cares  ?  Who 
am  I  }  myself  What  do  we  come  from  .^  an  accident. 
What's  a  mother }  an  old  woman.  A  father }  the 
gentleman  who  beats  her.  What  is  crime  ?  discovery. 
Virtue  ?  opportunity.  Politics  }  a  pretext.  Affection  } 
an  affectation.  Morality  ?  an  affair  of  latitude.  Pun- 
ishment ?  this  side  the  frontier.  Reward  ?  the  other. 
Property  ?  plunder.     Business  ?   other  people's  money 

403 


MACAIRE 

—  not  mine,  by  God !  and  the  end  of  life  to  live  till  we 
are  hanged. 

Bertrand.  Macaire,  I  came  into  this  place  with  my 
tail  between  my  legs  already,  and  hungry  besides;  and 
then  you  get  to  flourishing,  and  it  depresses  me  worse 
than  the  chaplain  in  the  jail. 

Macaire.  What  is  a  chaplain  ?  A  man  they  pay  to 
say  what  you  don't  want  to  hear. 

Bertrand.  And  who  are  you  after  all  ?  and  what 
right  have  you  to  talk  like  that  ?  By  what  I  can  hear, 
you've  been  the  best  part  of  your  life  in  quod ;  and  as 
for  me,  since  I've  followed  you,  what  sort  of  luck  have 
I  had  ?  Sold  again !  A  boose,  a  blue  fright,  two  years' 
hard,  and  the  police  hot-foot  after  us  even  now. 

Macaire.  What  is  life  ?    A  boose  and  the  police. 

Bertrand.  Of  course,  I  know  you're  clever;  I  admire 
you  down  to  the  ground,  and  I'll  starve  without  you. 
But  I  can't  stand  it,  and  I'm  off.  Good-bye:  good  luck 
to  you,  old  man!  and  if  you  want  the  bundle 

Macaire.  I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  mild  disposition  and, 
I  thank  my  maker,  elegant  manners;  but  rather  than  be 
betrayed  by  such  a  thing  as  you  are,  with  the  courage 
of  a  hare,  and  the  manners,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  of  a 
jumping-jack {He  shows  his  knife.) 

Bertrand.  Put  it  up,  put  it  up :  I'll  do  what  you  want. 

Macaire.  What  is  obedience  ?  fear.  So  march  straight, 
or  look  for  mischief.  It's  not  bon  ton,  I  know,  and 
far  from  friendly.  But  what  is  friendship  ?  convenience. 
But  we  lose  time  in  this  amiable  dalliance.  Come, 
now,  an  effort  of  deportment:  the  head  thrown  back, 
a  jaunty  carriage  of  the  leg;  crook  gracefully  the  elbow. 
Thus.     Tis  better.     {Calling.)     House,  house  here! 

404 


MACAIRE 

Bertrand.    Are  you   mad  ?      We  haven't  a  brass 
farthing. 

Macaire.  Now !  —  But  before  we  leave! 


SCENE  IV 
To  these,  Dumont 

DuMONT.  Gentlemen,  what  can  a  plain  man  do  for 
your  service  ? 

Macaire.  My  good  man,  in  a  roadside  inn  one  can- 
not look  for  the  impossible.  Give  one  what  small  wine 
and  what  country  fare  you  can  produce, 

Dumont.  Gentlemen,  you  come  here  upon  a  most 
auspicious  day,  a  red-letter  day  for  me  and  my  poor 
house,  when  all  are  welcome.  Suffer  me,  with  all  deli- 
cacy, to  inquire  if  you  are  not  in  somewhat  narrow  cir- 
cumstances } 

Macaire.  My  good  creature,  you  are  strangely  in  er- 
ror; one  is  rolling  in  gold. 

Bertrand.  And  very  hungry. 

Dumont.  Dear  me,  and  on  this  happy  occasion  I  had 
registered  a  vow  that  every  poor  traveller  should  have 
his  keep  for  nothing,  and  a  pound  in  his  pocket  to  help 
him  on  his  journey. 

Macaire.  A  pound  in  his  pocket  ? 

Bertrand.  Keep  for  nothing  ? 

Macaire.  Bitten! 

Bertrand.  Sold  again! 

Dumont.  I  will  send  you  what  we  have:  poor  fare, 
perhaps,  for  gentlemen  like  you. 

405 


Aside, 


MACAIRE 


SCENE  V 

Macaire,  Bertrand;  afterwards  Charles,  who  appears 
on  the  gallery,  and  conies  down 

Bertrand.  I  told  you  so.    Why  will  you  fly  so  high  ? 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  don't  crush  me.  A  pound:  a 
fortune!  With  a  pound  to  start  upon  —  two  pounds, 
for  rd  have  borrowed  yours  —  three  months  from  now 
I  might  have  been  driving  in  my  barouche,  with  you 
behind  it,  Bertrand,  in  a  tasteful  livery. 

Bertrand  {seeing  Charles).     Lord,  a  policeman ! 

Macaire.  Steady!  What  is  a  policemaa.?  Justice's 
blind  eye.  {To  Charles.)  I  think,  sir,  you  are  in  the 
force  ? 

Charles.  I  am,  sir,  and  it  was  in  that  character 

Macaire.  Ah,  sir,  a  fine  service! 

Charles.  It  is,  sir,  and  if  your  papers 

Macaire.  You  become  your  uniform.  Have  you  a 
mother?    Ah,  well,  well! 

Charles.  My  duty,  sir 

Macaire.  They  tell  me  one  Macaire  —  is  not  that  his 
name,  Bertrand  ?  —  has  broken  jail  at  Lyons  ? 

Charles.  He  has,  sir,  and  it  is  precisely  for  that 
reason 

Macaire.  Well,  good-bye.  {Shaking  Charles  by 
the  hand  and  leading  him  towards  the  door,  L,  U.  E. ) 
Sweet  spot,  sweet  spot.  The  scenery  is  .  .  .  {kisses 
his  finger-tips.  Exit  Charles).  And  now,  what  is  a 
policeman  ? 

Bertrand.  A  bobby. 

406 


MACAIRE 

SCENE  VI 

Macaire,  Bertrand;   to  whom  Aline  with  tray;  and 
afterwards  Maids 

Aline  {entering  with  tray,  and  proceeding  to  lay  table y 
L.)  My  men,  you  are  in  better  luck  than  usual.  It  isn't 
every  day  you  go  shares  in  a  wedding  feast. 

Macaire.  A  wedding  }   Ah,  and  you're  the  bride. 

Aline.  What  makes  you  fancy  that } 

Macaire.  Heavens,  am  I  blind  ? 

Aline.  Well,  then,  I  wish  I  was. 

Macaire.  I  take  you  at  the  word:  have  me. 

Aline.  You  will  never  be  hanged  for  modesty. 

Macaire.  Modesty  is  for  the  poor:  when  one  is  rich 
and  nobly  born,  'tis  but  a  clog.  I  love  you.  What  is 
your  name  ? 

Aline.  Guess  again,  and  you'll  guess  wrong.  (Enter 
the  other  servants  with  wine  baskets.)  Here,  set  the 
wine  down.  No,  that  is  the  old  Burgundy  for  the  wed- 
ding party.  These  gentlemen  must  put  up  with  a  dif- 
ferent bin.  (Setting  wine  before  Macaire  and  Bertrand, 
who  are  at  table,  L.) 

Macaire  (drinking).  Vinegar,  by  the  supreme  Jove! 

Bertrand.  Sold  again ! 

Macaire.  Now,  Bertrand,  mark  me.  (Before  the  ser- 
vants he  exchanges  the  bottle  for  the  one  in  front  o/Du- 
mont's  place  at  the  head  of  the  other  table.)  Was  it  well 
done? 

Bertrand.  Immense. 

Macaire  (emptying  his  glass  into  Bertrand's).  There, 
Bertrand,  you  may  finish  that.     Ha!  music? 

407 


MACAIR.E 


SCENE   VII 

To  these,  from  the  inn,  L,  U.  £.,  Dumont,  Charles, 
the  Curate,  the  Notary  jigging:  from  the  inn,  R.  U.  E., 
Fiddlers  playing  and  dancing;  and  through  -door  L.  C, 
GoRiOT,  Ernestine,  Peasants,  dancing  likewise.  Air : 
''Haste  to  the  Wedding.''  As  the  parties  meet,  the  music 
ceases. 

Dumont.  Welcome,  neighbours!  welcome  friends! 
Ernestine,  here  is  my  Charles,  no  longer  mine.  A 
thousand  welcomes.  O  the  gay  day!  O  the  auspicious 
wedding!  (Charles,  Ernestine,  Dumont,  Goriot,  Cu- 
rate, and  Notary  sit  to  the  wedding  feast;  Peasants, 
Fiddlers,  and  Maids,  grouped  at  back,  drinking  from 
the  barrel.)     O,  I  must  have  all  happy  around  me. 

Goriot.  Then  help  the  soup. 

Dumont.  Give  me  leave:  I  must  have  all  happy. 
Shall  these  poor  gentlemen  upon  a  day  like  this  drink 
ordinary  wine  >  Not  so:  I  shall  drink  it.  {To  Macaire, 
who  is  just  about  to  fill  his  glass.)  Don't  touch  it,  sir! 
Aline,  give  me  that  gentleman's  bottle  and  take  him 
mine:  with  old  Dumont's  compliments. 

Macaire.  What? 

Bertrand.  Change  the  bottle  ? 

Macaire.  Bitten! 

Bertrand.  Sold  again. 

Dumont.  Yes,  all  shall  be  happy. 

Goriot.  I  tell  *ee,  help  the  soup! 

Dumont  {begins  to  help  soup.  Then,  dropping  ladle). 
One  word:  a  matter  of  detail:  Charles  is  not  my  son. 

408 


!•     Aside. 


MACAIRE 

{All  exclaim. )  O  no,  he  is  not  my  son.  Perhaps  I  should 
have  mentioned  it  before. 

Charles.  I  am  not  your  son,  sir  ? 

DuMONT.  O  no,  far  from  it. 

GoRiOT.  Then  who  the  devil's  son  be  he  ? 

DuMONT.  O,  I  don't  know.  It's  an  odd  tale,  a  romantic 
tale:  it  may  amuse  you.  It  was  twenty  years  ago, 
when  I  kept  the  Golden  Head  at  Lyons :  Charles  was 
left  upon  my  doorstep  in  a  covered  basket,  with  suffi- 
cient money  to  support  the  child  till  he  should  come 
of  age.  There  was  no  mark  upon  the  linen,  nor  any 
clue  but  one :  an  unsigned  letter  from  the  father  of  the 
child,  which  he  strictly  charged  me  to  preserve.  It  was 
to  prove  his  identity:  he,  of  course,  would  know  the 
contents,  and  he  only;  so  I  keep  it  safe  in  the  third 
compartment  of  my  cash-box,  with  the  ten  thousand 
francs  I've  saved  for  his  dowry.  Here  is  the  key ;  it's 
a  patent  key.  To-day  the  poor  boy  is  twenty-one,  to- 
morrow to  be  married.  I  did  perhaps  hope  the  father 
would  appear:  there  was  a  Marquis  coming;  he  wrote 
me  for  a  room ;  I  gave  him  the  best,  Number  Thirteen, 
which  you  have  all  heard  of:  I  did'hope  it  might  be  he, 
for  a  Marquis,  you  know,  is  always  genteel.  But  no, 
you  see.  As  for  me,  I  take  you  all  to  witness  I'm  as 
innocent  of  him  as  the  babe  unborn. 

Macaire.  Ahem!  I  think  you  said  the  linen  bore 
an  M  ? 

DuMONT.  Pardon  me :  the  markings  were  cut  off. 

Macaire.  True.     The  basket  white,  I  think  } 

DuMONT.  Brown,  brown. 

Macaire.  Ah !  brown  —  a  whitey-brown. 

GoRioT.  I  tell  *ee  what,  Dumont,  this  is  all  very  well; 
409 


MACAIRE 

but  in  that  case,  I'll  be  danged  if  he  gets  my  daater. 
{General  consteration.) 

DuMONT.  O  Goriot,  let's  have  happy  faces! 

GoRiOT.  Happy  faces  be  danged !  I  want  to  marry 
my  daater;  I  want  your  son.  But  who  be  this?  I 
don't  know,  and  you  don't  know,  and  he  don't  know. 
He  may  be  anybody;  by  Jarge,  he  may  be  nobody! 
{Exclamations.) 

Curate.  The  situation  is  crepuscular. 

Ernestine.  Father,  and  Mr.  Dumont  (and  you  too, 
Charles),  I  wish  to  say  one  word.  You  gave  us  leave 
to  fall  in  love;  we  fell  in  love;  and  as  for  me,  my  father, 
I  will  either  marry  Charles,  or  die  a  maid. 

Charles.  And  you,  sir,  would  you  rob  me  in  one 
day  of  both  a  father  and  a  wife  ? 

Dumont  {weeping).  Happy  faces,  happy  faces! 

Goriot.  I  know  nothing  about  robbery ;  but  she  can- 
not marry  without  my  consent,  and  that  she  cannot  get. 

Dumont.  O  dear,  O  dear!  1 

Aline.  What,  spoil  the  wedding  ?  -r     ^7 

n  A^Ku    ^  }     Together. 

Ernestine.  O  father!  ^ 

Charles.  Sir,  sir,  you  would  not J 

Goriot  {exasperated).  I  wun't,  and  what's  more  I 
shan't. 

Notary.  I  donno  if  I  make  myself  clear? 

Dumont.  Goriot,  do  let's  have  happy  faces! 

Goriot.  Fudge!    Fudge!!    Fudge!!! 

Curate.  Possibly  on  application  to  this  conscientious 
jurist,  light  may  be  obtained. 

All.  The  Notary;  yes,  yes;  the  Notary! 

Dumont.  Now,  how  about  this  marriage  ? 

Notary.  Marriage  is  a  contract,  to  which  there  are 
410 


MACAIRE 

two  constracting  parties,  John  Doe  and  Richard  Roe. 
I  don  no  if  I  make  myself  clear? 

Aline.  Poor  lamb ! 

Curate.  Silence,  my  friend;   you  will  expose  your- 
self to  misconstruction. 

Macaire  {taking  the  stage).  As  an  entire  stranger  in 
this  painful  scene,  will  you  permit  a  gentleman  and 
a  traveller  to  interject  one  word  ?  There  sits  the  young 
man,  full,  I  am  sure,  of  pleasing  qualities;  here  the 
young  maiden,  by  her  own  confession  bashfully  con« 
senting  to  the  match;  there  sits  that  dear  old  gentle- 
man, a  lover  of  bright  faces  like  myself,  his  own  now 
dimmed  with  sorrow;  and  here  —  (may  I  be  allowed 
to  add  ?)  —  here  sits  this  noble  Roman,  a  father  like 
myself,  and  like  myself  the  slave  of  duty.  Last  you 
have  me  —  Baron  Henri-Frederic  de  Latour  de  Main  de 
la  Tonnerre  de  Brest,  the  man  of  the  world  and  the 
man  of  delicacy.  I  find  you  all  —  permit  me  the  ex- 
pression—  gravelled.  A  marriage  and  an  obstacle. 
Now,  what  is  marriage  ?  The  union  of  two  souls, 
and,  what  is  possibly  more  romantic,  the  fusion  of  two 
dowries.  What  is  an  obstacle  ?  the  devil.  And  this 
obstacle?  to  me,  as  a  man  of  family,  the  obstacle  seems 
grave;  but  to  me,  as  a  man  and  a  brother,  what  is  it 
but  a  word  ?  O  my  friend  {to  Goriot),  you  whom  I 
single  out  as  the  victim  of  the  same  noble  failings  with 
myself  —  of  pride  of  birth,  of  pride  of  honesty  —  O  my 
friend,  reflect.  Go  now  apart  with  your  dishevelled 
daughter,  your  tearful  son-in-law,  and  let  their  plaints 
constrain  you.  Believe  me,  when  you  come  to  die, 
you  will  recall  with  pride  this  amiable  weakness. 

Goriot.  I  shan't,  and  what's  more  I  wun't.    (Charles 
411 


MACAIRE 

and  Ernestine  lead  htm  up  stage^  protesting.     Att  rise, 

except  l^OTAKY.) 

DuMONT  {front  R.,  shaking  hands  with  Macaire). 
Sir,  you  have  a  noble  nature.  (Macaire  picks  his 
pocket.)    Dear  me,  dear  me,  and  you  are  rich. 

Macaire.  I  own,  sir,  I  deceived  you:  I  feared  some 
wounding  offer,  and  my  pride  replied.  But  to  be  quite 
frank  with  you,  you  behold  me  here,  the  Baron  Henri- 
Frederic  de  Latour  de  Main  de  la  Tonnerre  de  Brest, 
and  between  my  simple  manhood  and  the  infinite  these 
rags  are  all. 

DuMONT.  Dear  me,  and  with  this  noble  pride,  my 
gratitude  is  useless.  For  I,  too,  have  delicacy:  I  un- 
derstand you  could  not  stoop  to  take  a  gift. 

Macaire.  A  gift  ?  a  small  one  ?  never! 

DuMONT.  And  I  will  never  wound  you  by  the  offer. 

Macaire.  Bitten. 

Bertrand.  Sold  again. 

GoRiOT  {taking  the  stage).  But,  look'ee  here,  he  can't 
marry. 

Macaire.  Hey  ? 

DuMONT.  Ah! 

Aline.  Heyday! 

Curate.  Wherefore? 

Ernestine.  Oh! 

Charles.  Ah! 

GoRioT.  Not  without  his  veyther's  consent!  And  he 
hasn't  got  it;  and  what's  more,  he  can't  get  it:  and 
what's  more,  he  hasn't  got  a  veyther  to  get  it  from.  It's 
the  law  of  France. 

Aline.  Then  the  law  of  France  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  itself. 

413 


j-      Aside. 


Together, 


MACAIRE 


Together. 


Ernestine.  O,  couldn't  we  ask  the  Notary  again  ? 

Curate.  Indubitably  you  may  ask  him. 

Macaire.  Can't  they  marry  ? 

DuMONT.  Can't  he  marry  ? 

Aline.  Can't  she  marry  ? 

Ernestine.  Can't  we  marry  ? 

Charles.  Can't  I  marry  ? 

Goriot.  Bain't  I  right  ? 

Notary.  Constracting  parties. 

Curate.  Possibly  to-morrow  at  an  early  hour  he  may 
be  more  perspicuous. 

Goriot.  Ay,  before  heVe  time  to  get  at  it 

Notary.  Unoffending  jurisconsult  overtaken  by  sor- 
row. Possibly  by  applying  justice  of  peace  might 
afford  relief. 

Macaire.  Bravo! 

DuMONT.  Excellent! 

Charles.  Let's  go  at  once! 

Aline.  The  very  thing! 

Ernestine.  Yes,  this  minute! 

Goriot.  I'll  go.  I  don't  mind  getting  advice,  but  I 
wun't  take  it. 

Macaire.  My  friends,  one  word :  I  perceive  by  your 
downcast  looks  that  you  have  not  recognised  the  true 
nature  of  your  responsibility  as  citizens  of  time.  What 
is  care?  impiety.  Joy?  the  whole  duty  of  man.  Here 
is  an  opportunity  of  duty  it  were  sinful  to  forego.  With 
a  word,  I  could  lighten  your  hearts;  but  I  prefer  to 
quicken  your  heels,  and  send  you  forth  on  your  ingenu- 
ous errand  with  happy  faces  and  smiling  thoughts,  the 
physicians  of  your  own  recovery.  Fiddlers,  to  your 
catgut!    Up,  Bertrand,  and  show  them  how  one  foots 

4»i 


Together, 


MACAIRE 

it  in  society;  forward,  girls,  and  choose  me  every  one 
the  lad  she  loves;  Dumont,  benign  old  man,  lead  forth 
our  blushing  Curate;  and  you,  O  bride,  embrace  the 
uniform  of  your  beloved,  and  help  us  dance  in  your 
wedding-day.  {Dance,  in  the  course  of  which  Macaire 
picks  Dumont's  pocket  of  his  keys,  seledts  the  key  of  the 
cash-box,  and  returns  the  others  to  his  pocket.  In  the 
end,  all  dance  out:  the  wedding-party,  headed  by  Fid- 
dlers, L.  C. ;  the  Maids  and  Aline  into  the  inn,  R.  U.  E, 
Manet  Bertrand  and  Macaire.  ) 

SCENE   VIII 

Macaire,  Bertrand,  who  instantly  takes  a  bottle  from 
the  wedding-table,  and  sits  with  it,  L, 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  there's  a  devfl  of  a  want  of  a 
father  here. 

Bertrand.  Ay,  if  we  only  knew  where  to  find  him. 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  look  at  me:  I  am  Macaire;  I  am 
that  father. 

Bertrand.  You,  Macaire  ?  you  a  father  ? 

Macaire.  Not  yet,  but  in  five  minutes.  I  am  capable 
of  anything.    {Producing  key.)  What  think  you  of  this  ? 

Bertrand.  That  ?    Is  it  a  key  ? 

Macaire.  Ay,  boy,  and  what  besides  ?  my  diploma 
of  respectability,  my  patent  of  fatherhood.  I  prigged 
it — in  the  ardour  of  the  dance  I  prigged  it;  I  change  it 
beyond  recognition,  thus  {twists  the  handle  of  the  key) ; 
and  now  .  .  .  ?  Where  is  my  long-lost  child  ?  pro- 
duce my  young  policeman!   show  me  my  gallant  boy! 

Bertrand.  I  don't  understand. 

Macaire.  Dear  innocence,  how  should  you  ?  Your 
414 


MACAIRE 

brains  are  in  your  fists.  Go  and  keep  watch.  {He 
goes  into  the  office  and  returns  with  the  cash-box.)  Keep 
watch,  I  say. 

Bertrand.  Where? 

Macaire.  Everywhere.     {He  opens  box.) 

Bertrand.  Gold. 

Macaire.  Hands  off!  Keep  watch.  (Bertrand  at 
back  of  stage.)  Beat  slower,  my  paternal  heart!  The 
third  compartment;  let  me  see. 

Bertrand.  S'st!  (Macaire  shuts  box.)  No;  false 
alarm. 

Macaire.  The  third  compartment.     Ay,  here  t 

Bertrand.  S'st!     {Same  business.)     No:  fire  away. 

Macaire.  The  third  compartment:  it  must  be  this. 

Bertrand.  S'st !  (Macaire  keeps  box  open,  watching 
Bertrand.)     All  serene;  it's  the  wind. 

Macaire.  Now,  see  here !  ( He  darts  his  knife  into  the 
stage.)  I  will  either  be  backed  as  a  man  should  be,  or 
from  this  minute  out  I'll  work  alone.  Do  you  under- 
stand }    I  said  alone. 

Bertrand.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  Macaire! 

Macaire.  Ay,  here  it  is.  {Reading  letter.)  '*  Pre- 
serve this  letter  secretly;  its  terms  are  known  only  to 
you  and  me:  hence  when  the  time  comes,  I  shall  re- 
peat them,  and  my  son  will  recognise  his  father." 
Signed:  **  Your  Unknown  Benefactor."  {He  hums  it 
over  twice  and  replaces  it.  Then,  fingering  the  gold. ) 
Gold!  The  yellow  enchantress,  happiness  ready-made 
and  laughing  in  my  face!  Gold:  what  is  gold?  The 
world;  the  term  of  ills;  the  empery  of  all;  the  multi- 
tudinous babble  of  the  change,  the  sailing  from  all  ports 
of  freighted  argosies;  music,  wine,  a  palace;  the  doors 

41=; 


MACAIRE 

of  the  bright  theatre,  the  key  of  consciences,  and  love 
—  love's  whistle!  All  this  below  my  itching  fingers; 
and  to  set  this  by,  turn  a  deaf  ear  upon  the  siren  pres- 
ent, and  condescend  once  more,  naked,  into  the  ring 
with  fortune  —  Macaire,  how  few  would  do  it!  But 
you,  Macaire,  you  are  compacted  of  more  subtile  clay. 
No  cheap  immediate  pilfering:  no  retail  trade  of  petty 
larceny;  but  swoop  at  the  heart  of  the  position,  and 
clutch  all! 

Bertrand  [at  his  shoulder).     Halves! 

Macaire.  Halves  ?  {He  lochs  the  box.)  Bertrand,  !• 
am  a  father.     {Replaces  box  in  office.) 

Bertrand  {looking  after  him).  Well,  I  —  am  — 
damned! 

Drop 


410 


ACT  11 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  night  has  come.  A  hanging  cluster  of 
lighted  lamps  over  each  table,  R.  and  L.  Macaire,  R.,  smoking  a 
cigarette;  Bertrand,  Z..,  with  a  churchwarden  :  each  with  bottle 
and  glass 

SCENE  I 
Macaire,  Bertrand 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  I  am  content:  a  child  might  play 
with  me.     Does  your  pipe  draw  well  ? 

Bertrand.  Like  a  factory  chimney.  This  is  my  no- 
tion of  life :  liquor,  a  chair,  a  table  to  put  my  feet  on,  a 
fine  clean  pipe,  and  no  police. 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  do  you  see  these  changing  exhala- 
tions ?  do  you  see  these  blue  rings  and  spirals,  weaving 
their  dance,  like  a  round  of  fairies,  on  the  footless  air? 

Bertrand.  I  see  'em  right  enough. 

Macaire.  Man  of  little  vision,  expound  me  these  me- 
teors! what  do  they  signify,  O  wooden-head?  Clod, 
of  what  do  they  consist  ? 

Bertrand.  Damned  bad  tobacco. 

Macaire.  I  will  give  you  a  little  course  of  science. 
Everything,  Bertrand  (much  as  it  may  surprise  you), 
has  three  states:  a  vapour,  a  liquid,  a  solid.  These  are 
fortune  in  the  vapour:  these  are  ideas.  What  are  ideas  ? 
the  protaplasm  of  wealth.  To  your  head  —  which,  by 
the  way,  is  a  solid,  Bertrand  —  what  are  they  but  foul 
air  ?    To  mine,  to  my  prehensile  and  constructive  intel- 

4n 


MACAIRE 

lects,  see,  as  I  grasp  and  work  them,  to  what  h'neaments 
of  the  future  they  transform  themselves:  a  palace,  a 
barouche,  a  pair  of  luminous  footmen,  plate,  wine,  re- 
spect, and  to  be  honest! 

Bertrand.   But  what's  the  sense  in  honesty  ? 

M  ACAiRE.  The  sense  ?  You  see  me :  Macaire :  elegant,  im- 
moral, invincible  in  cunning;  well,  Bertrand,  much  as  it 
may  surprise  you,  I  am  simply  damned  by  my  dishonesty. 

Bertrand.  No! 

Macaire.  The  honest  man,  Bertrand,  that  God's  no- 
blest work.  He  carries  the  bag,  my  boy.  Would  you 
have  me  define  honesty  ?  the  strategic  point  for  theft. 
Bertrand,  if  I'd  three  hundred  a  year,  I'd  be  honest  to- 
morrow. 

Bertrand.  Ah!    Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it! 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  I  will  bet  you  my  head  against 
your  own  —  the  longest  odds  I  can  imagine — that  with 
honesty  for  my  spring-board,  I  leap  through  history 
like  a  paper  hoop,  and  come  out  among  posterity  heroic 
and  immortal. 

SCENE   II 

To  thesCy  all  the  former  charadters,  less  the  Notary. 
The  fiddles  are  heard  without,  playing  dolefully.  Air: 
" O  dear,  what  can  the  matter  be?"  in  time  to  which 
the  procession  enters. 

Macaire.  Well,  friends,  what  cheer  ? 
Aline.  No  wedding,  no  wedding! 
GoRioT.  I  told  'ee  he  can't  and  he  can't. 
DuMONT.  Dear,  dear  me!  >  Together, 

Ernestine.  They  won't  let  us  marry. 
Charles.  No  wife,  no  father,  no  nothing!  ^ 
418 


MACAIRE 

Curate.  The  facts  have  justified  the  worst  anticipa- 
tions of  our  absent  friend,  the  Notary. 

Macaire.  I  perceive  I  must  reveal  myself. 

DuMONT.  God  bless  me,  no ! 

Macaire.  My  friends,  I  had  meant  to  preserve  a  strict 
incognito,  for  I  was  ashamed  (I  own  it!)  of  this  poor 
accoutrement;  but  when  I  see  a  face  that  I  can  render 
happy,  say,  my  old  Dumont,  should  I  hesitate  to  work 
the  change.?  Hear  me,  then,  and  you  {to  the  others) 
prepare  a  smiling  countenance.  {Repeating.)  **  Preserve 
this  letter  secretly;  its  terms  are  only  known  to  you 
and  me;  hence  when  the  time  comes,  I  shall  repeat 
them,  and  my  son  will  recognise  his  father.  —  Your 
Unknown  Benefactor." 

Dumont.  The  words!  the  letter!  Charles,  alas!  it  is 
your  father! 

Charles.  Good  Lord!  {General consternation.) 

Bertrand  {aside:  smiting  his  brow),  I  see  it  now; 
sublime! 

Curate.  A  highly  singular  eventuality. 

GoRiOT.  Him?  O  well,  then,  I  wun't.    {Goes  up.) 

Macaire.  Charles,  to  my  arms!  {Business.)  Ernestine, 
your  second  father  waits  to  welcome  you.  {Business.) 
Goriot,  noble  old  man,  I  grasp  your  hand.  {He  doesn't.) 
And  you,  Dumont,  how  shall  your  unknown  benefactor 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  his  boy .?  {A  dead 
pause.)     Charles,  to  my  arms! 

Charles.  My  father,  you  are  still  something  of  a 
stranger.  I  hope — er  —  in  the  course  of  time  —  I  hope 
that  may  be  somewhat  mended.  But  I  confess  that  1 
have  so  long  regarded  Mr.  Dumont 

Macaire.  Love  him  still,  dear  boy,  love  him  still.  1 
419 


MACAIRE 

have  not  returned  to  be  a  burden  on  your  heart,  nor 
much,  comparatively,  on  your  pocket.  A  place  by  the 
fire,  dear  boy,  a  crust  for  my  friend,  Bertrand.  {A  dead 
pause.)  Ah,  well,  this  is  a  different  home-coming  from 
that  I  fancied  when  I  left  the  letter:  I  dreamed  to  grow 
rich.     Charles,  you  remind  me  of  your  sainted  mother. 

Charles.  I  trust,  sir,  you  do  not  think  yourself  less 
welcome  for  your  poverty. 

Macaire.  Nay,  nay  —  more  welcome,  more  welcome. 
O,  I  know  your — (business)  backs!  Besides,  my  pov- 
erty is  noble.  Political  .  .  .  Dumont,  what  are  your 
politics  ? 

Dumont.  A  plain  old  republican,  my  lord. 

Macaire.  And  yours,  my  good  Goriot } 

GoRiOT.  I  be  a  royalist,  I  be,  and  so  be  my  daater. 

Macaire.  How  strange  is  the  coincidence!  The  party 
that  I  sought  to  found  combined  the  peculiarities  of 
both :  a  patriotic  enterprise  in  which  I  fell.  This  hum- 
ble fellow  .  .  .  have  I  introduced  him  ?  You  behold  in 
us  the  embodiment  of  aristocracy  and  democracy.  Ber- 
trand, shake  hands  with  my  family.  (Bertrand  is  re- 
buffed by  one  and  the  other  in  dead  silence.) 

Bertrand.  Sold  again! 

Macaire.  Charles,  to  my  arms!    (Business.) 

Ernestine.  Well,  but  now  that  he  has  a  father  of 
some  kind,  cannot  the  marriage  go  on  ? 

Macaire.  Angel,  this  very  night:  I  burn  to  take  my 
grandchild  on  my  knees. 

Goriot.  Be  you  that  young  man's  veyther? 

Macaire.  Ay,  and  what  a  father! 

Goriot.  Then  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  I  shan't  and  I 
wun't. 

430 


MACAIRE 

Macaire.  Ah,  friends,  friends,  what  a  satisfaction  it 
is,  what  a  sight  is  virtue!  I  came  among  you  in  this 
poor  attire  to  test  you;  how  nobly  have  you  borne  the 
test!  But  my  disguise  begins  to  irk  me:  who  will  lend 
me  a  good  suit  ?  {Business.) 

SCENE   III 
To  these,  the  Marquis,  L,  C. 

Marquis.  Is  this  the  house  of  John  Paul  Dumont, 
once  of  Lyons  ? 

Dumont.  It  is,  sir,  and  I  am  he,  at  your  disposal. 

Marquis.  I  am  the  Marquis  Villers-Cotterets  de  la 
Cherte  de  Medoc.     (Sensation.) 

Macaire.  Marquis,  delighted,  I  am  sure. 

Marquis  {to  Dumont).  I  come,  as  you  perceive,  un- 
followed;  my  errand,  therefore,  is  discreet.  I  come 
{producing  notes  from  breast-pocket)  equipped  with 
thirty  thousand  francs;  my  errand,  therefore,  must  be 
generous.     Can  you  not  guess  ? 

Dumont.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

Marquis  {repeating).     "  Preserve  this  letter,"  etc. 

Macaire.  Bitten. 

Bertrand.  Sold  again  (^/^^).     {A  pause.) 

Aline.  Well,  I  never  did ! 

Dumont.  Two  fathers ! 

Marquis.  Two?    Impossible. 

Dumont.  Not  at  all.     This  is  the  other. 

Marquis.  This  man  ? 

Macaire.  This  is  the  man,  my  lord ;  here  stands  the 
father;  Charles,  to  my  arms!    (Charles  backs,) 

Dumont.  He  knew  the  letter. 

431 


MACAIRE 

Marquis.  Well,  but  so  did  I. 

Curate.  The  judgment  of  Solomon. 

GoRiOT.  What  did  I  tell  'ee  ?  he  can't  marry, 

Ernestine.  Couldn't  they  both  consent? 

Marquis.  But  he's  my  living  image. 

Macaire.  Mine,  Marquis,  mine. 

Marquis.  My  figure,  I  think  ? 

Macaire.  Ah,  Charles,  Charles! 

Curate.  We  used  to  think  his  physiognomy  reserr*' 
bled  Dumont's. 

DuMONT.  Come  to  look  at  him,  he's  really  like  Goriot. 

Ernestine.  O  papa,  I  hope  he's  not  my  brother. 

Goriot.  What  be  talking  of?  I  tell  'ee,  he's  like  our 
Curate. 

Charles.  Gentlemen,  my  head  aches. 

Marquis.  I  have  it :  the  involuntary  voice  of  nature. 
Look  at  me,  my  son. 

Macaire.  Nay,  Charles,  but  look  at  me. 

Charles.  Gentlemen,  I  am  unconscious  of  the  small- 
est natural  inclination  for  either. 

Marquis.  Another  thought:  what  was  his  mother's 
name  ? 

Macaire.  What  was  the  name  of  his  mother  by  vou  ? 

Marquis.  Sir,  you  are  silenced. 

Macaire.  Silenced  by  honour.  I  had  rather  lose  my 
boy  than  compromise  his  sainted  mother. 

Marquis.  A  thought:  twins  might  explain  it:  had 
you  not  two  foundlings  ? 

DuMONT.  Nay,  sir,  one  only;  and  judging  by  the 
miseries  of  this  evening,  I  should  say,  thank  God! 

Macaire.  My  friends,  leave  me  alone  with  the  Mar- 
quis.    It  is  only  a  father  that  can  understand  a  father's 

4a3 


MACAIRE 

heart.  Bertrand,  follow  the  members  of  my  family. 
(They  troop  out,  L.  U,  E.  and  R,  U.  £.,  the  fiddlers  play- 
ing.    Air :  "  O  dear^  what  can  the  matter  he}'') 

SCENE   IV 
Macaire,  Marquis 

Marquis.  Well,  sir.^ 

Macaire.  My  lord,  I  feel  for  you.  {Bminess,  They 
sit,  R.) 

Marquis.  And  now,  sir  ? 

Macaire.  The  bond  that  joins  us  is  remarkable  and 
touching. 

Marquis.  Well,  sir? 

Macaire  {touching  him  on  the  breast).  You  have  there 
thirty  thousand  francs. 

Marquis.  Well,  sir? 

Macaire.  I  was  but  thinking  of  the  inequalities  of 
life,  my  lord :  that  I  who,  for  all  you  know,  may  be  the 
father  of  your  son,  should  have  nothing;  and  that  you 
who,  for  all  I  know,  may  be  the  father  of  mine,  should 
be  literally  bulging  with  bank  notes.  .  .  .  Where  do 
you  keep  them  at  night  ? 

Marquis.  Under  my  pillow.  I  think  it  rather  in- 
genious. 

Macaire.  Admirably  so !    I  applaud  the  device. 

MARauis.  Well,  sir? 

Macaire.  Do  you  snuff,  my  lord  ? 

MARauis.  No,  sir,  I  do  not. 

Macaire.  My  lord,  I  am  a  poor  man. 

Marquis.  Well,  sir  ?  and  what  of  that  ? 

Macaire.  The  affections,  my  lord,  are  priceless. 
423 


MACAIRE 

Money  will  not  buy  them  ;  or,  at  least,  it  takes  a  great 
deal. 

Marquis.  Sir,  your  sentiments  do  you  honour. 

Macaire.  My  lord,  you  are  rich. 

MARQ.UIS.  Well,  sir  ? 

Macaire.  Now  follow  me,  I  beseech  you.  Here  am 
I,  my  lord  ;  and  there,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  are 
you.  Each  has  the  father's  heart,  and  there  we  are 
equal;  each  claims  yon  interesting  lad,  and  there  again 
we  are  on  a  par.  But,  my  lord  —  and  here  we  come  to 
the  inequality,  and  what  I  consider  the  unfairness  of  the 
thing — you  have  thirty  thousand  francs,  and  1,  my 
lord,  have  not  a  rap.  You  mark  me  ?  not  a  rap,  my 
lord  !  My  lord,  put  yourself  in  my  position :  consider 
what  must  be  my  feelings,  my  desires;  and  —  hey? 

Marciuis.  1  fail  to  grasp.  .  .  . 

Macaire  (with  irritation).  My  dear  man,  there  is  the 
door  of  the  house;  here  am  I;  there  (touching  Makqims 
on  the  breast)  are  thirty  thousand  francs.     Well,  now  ? 

Marquis.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,  sir,  1  gather 
nothing;  my  mind  is  quite  unused  to  such  prolonged 
exertion.  If  the  boy  be  yours,  he  is  not  mine;  if  he  be 
mine,  he  is  not  yours;  and  if  he  is  neither  of  ours,  or 
both  of  ours  ...  in  short,  my  mind.  .  .  . 

Macaire.  My  lord,  will  you  lay  those  thirty  thousand 
francs  upon  the  table  ? 

Marquis.  I  fail  to  grasp  c  .  .  but  ifit  will  in  anyway 
oblige  you.  .  .  .  (Does  so.) 

Macaire.  Now,  my  lord,  follow  me:  I  take  them  up; 
you  see?  I  put  them  in  my  pocket;  you  follow  me? 
This  is  my  hat;  here  is  my  stick;  and  here  is  my  —  my 
friend's  bundle. 

4>4 


MACAIRE 

MARauis.     But  that  is  my  cloak. 

Macaire.  Precisely.  Now,  my  lord,  one  more  effort 
of  your  lordship's  mind.  If  I  were  to  go  out  of  that 
door,  with  the  full  intention  —  follow  me  close  —  the 
full  intention  of  never  being  heard  of  more,  what  would 
you  do  ? 

Marquis.  I !  —  send  for  the  police. 

Macaire.  Take  your  money!  {Dashing  down  the 
notes.)  Man,  if  I  met  you  in  a  lane !  {He  drops  his  head 
upon  the  table.) 

MARauis.  The  poor  soul  is  insane.  The  other  man 
whom  I  suppose  to  be  his  keeper,  is  very  much  to 
blame. 

Macaire  {raising  his  head),  I  have  a  light!  {To  Mar- 
quis.) With  invincible  oafishness,  my  lord,  I  cannot 
struggle.  I  pass  you  by;  I  leave  you  gaping  by  the 
wayside;  I  blush  to  have  a  share  in  the  progeny  of 
such  an  owl.     Off,  off,  and  send  the  tapster  I 

MARauis.  Poor  fellow. 

SCENE  V 

Macaire,  to  whom  Bertrand.    Afterwards  Dumont 

Bertrand.  Well? 

Macaire.  Bitten. 

Bertrand.     Sold  again. 

Macaire.  Had  he  the  wit  of  a  lucifer  match!  But 
what  can  gods  or  men  against  stupidity  ?  Still,  I  have 
a  trick.     Where  is  that  damned  old  man  ? 

Dumont  {entering).  I  hear  you  want  me. 

Macaire.  Ah,  my  good  old  Dumont,  this  is  very  sad. 

Dumont.     Dear  me,  what  is  wrong  ? 
425 


MACAIRE 

Macaire.  Dumont,  you  had  a  dowry  for  my  son  ? 

DuMONT.    I  had;  I  have:  ten  thousand  francs. 

Macaire.  It's  a  poor  thing,  but  it  must  do.  Dumont, 
I  bury  my  old  hopes,  my  old  paternal  tenderness. 

Dumont.  What  ?  is  he  not  your  son  ? 

Macaire.  Pardon  me,  my  friend.  The  Marquis  claims 
my  boy.  I  will  not  seek  to  deny  that  he  attempted  to 
corrupt  me,  or  that  I  spurned  his  gold.  It  was  thirty 
thousand. 

Dumont.    Noble  soul ! 

Macaire.  One  has  a  heart  ...  He  spoke,  Dumont, 
that  proud  noble  spoke,  of  the  advantages  to  our  be- 
loved Charles ;  and  in  my  father's  heart  a  voice  arose, 
louder  than  thunder.  Dumont,  was  I  unselfish  ?  The 
voice  said  no;  the  voice,  Dumont,  up  and  told  me  to 
begone. 

Dumont.  To  begone  ?  to  go  ? 

Macaire.  To  begone,  Dumont,  and  to  go.  Both, 
Dumont.  To  leave  my  son  to  marry,  and  be  rich  and 
happy  as  the  son  of  another;  to  creep  forth  myself,  old, 
penniless,  broken-hearted,  exposed  to  the  inclemencies 
of  heaven  and  the  rebuffs  of  the  police. 

Dumont.  This  is  what  I  had  looked  for  at  your  hands. 
Noble,  noble  man! 

Macaire.  One  has  a  heart  .  .  .  and  yet,  Dumont,  it 
can  hardly  have  escaped  your  penetration  that  if  I  were 
to  shift  from  this  hostelry  without  a  farthing,  and  leave 
my  offspring  to  wallow — literally — among  millions,  I 
should  play  the  part  of  little  better  than  an  ass. 

Dumont.  But  1  had  thought  ...  I  had  fancied  .  .  . 

Macaire.  No,  Dumont,  you  had  not;  do  not  seek  to 
impose  upon  my  simplicity.     What  you  did  think  was 

426 


MACAIRE 

this,  Dumont:  for  the  sake  of  this  noble  father,  for  the 
sake  of  this  son  whom  he  denies  for  his  own  interest 
—  I  mean,  for  his  interest  —  no,  I  mean,  for  his  own — 
well,  anyway,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  general  atmos- 
phere of  sacrifice  and  nobility,  I  must  hand  over  this 
dowry  to  the  Baron  Henri-Frederic  de  Latour  de  Main 
de  la  Tonnerre  de  Brest. 

Dumont.     Noble,  O 
noble !  I         Together :  each  shaking 

Bertrand.    Beautiful,  [  him  by  the  hand, 

O  beautiful! 

Dumont.  Now  Charles  is  rich  he  needs  it  not.  For 
whom  could  it  more  fittingly  be  set  aside  than  for  his 
noble  father  ?    I  will  give  it  you  at  once. 

Bertrand.  At  once,  at  once! 

Macaire  (aside  to  Bertrand).  Hang  on.  {Aloud.) 
Charles,  Charles,  my  lost  boy!  {He  fatts  weeping  at  L. 
table.  Dumont  enters  the  office,  and  brings  down  cash- 
box  to  table  R.  He  feels  in  all  his  pockets :  Bertrand 
from  behind  him  making  signs  to  Macaire,  which  the 
latter  does  not  see.) 

Dumont.  That's  strange.  I  can't  find  the  key.  It's 
a  patent  key. 

Bertrand  {behind  Dumont,  making  signs  to  Macaire.) 
The  key,  he  can't  find  the  key. 

Macaire.  O  yes,  I  remember.  I  heard  it  drop.  {Drops 
key.)     And  here  it  is  before  my  eyes. 

Dumont.  That  ?    That's  yours.     I  saw  it  drop. 

Macaire.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  I  heard  it 
fall  five  minutes  back. 

Dumont.  But  I  saw  it. 

Macaire.  Impossible.     It  must  be  yours. 
437 


MACAIRE 

DuMONT.  It  is  like  mine,  indeed.    How  came  it  in 

your  pocket. 

Macaire.  Bitten.     {Aside.) 

Bertrand.  Sold  again  (aside),  .  .  .  You  forget, 
Baron,  it's  the  key  of  my  valise;  I  gave  it  you  to  keep 
in  consequence  of  the  hole  in  my  pocket. 

Macaire.  True,  true;  and  that  explains. 

DuMONT.  O,  that  explains.  Now,  all  we  have  to  do 
is  to  find  mine.     It's  a  patent  key.    You  heard  it  drop. 

Macaire.  Distinctly. 

Bertrand.  So  I  did;  distinctly. 

DuMONT.  Here,  Aline,  Babette,  Goriot,  Curate, 
Charles,  everybody,  come  here  and  look  for  my  key  I 

SCENE  VI 

To  these  with  candles,  all  the  former  characters 

except  Fiddlers,  Peasants,  and  Notary. 

They  hunt  for  the  key 

DuMONT.  It's  bound  to  be  here.  We  all  heard  it 
drop. 

MARauis  {with  Bertrand's  bundle).     Is  this  it  ? 

All  {with  fury).     No. 

Bertrand.  Hands  off",  that's  my  luggage.  {Hunt 
resumed.) 

Dumont.  I  heard  it  drop,  as  plain  as  ever  I  heard 
anything. 

Marquis.  By  the  way  {all  start  up),  what  are  we 
looking  for? 

All  {with  fury).     Oh  I! 

Dumont.  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  find  my 
key  ?    ( Hunt  resumed, ) 

4^8 


MACAIRE 

Curate.  What  description  of  a  key 

DuMONT.  A  patent,  patent,  patent,  patent  key! 

Macaire.  I  have  it.     Here  it  is ! 

All  {with  relief).  Ah!! 

DuMONT.  That?  What  do  you  mean?  That's 
yours. 

Macaire.  Pardon  me. 

DUMONT.   It  is. 

Macaire.  It  isn't. 

DuMONT.  I  tell  you  it  is:  look  at  that  twisted  handle. 

Macaire.  It  can't  be  mine,  and  so  it  must  be  yours. 

DuMONT.  It  is  NOT.  Feel  in  your  pockets.  {To  the 
others. )  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  find  my  patent 
key? 

All.  Oh ! !    {Hunt  resumed. ) 

Macaire.  Ah,  well,  you're  right.  {He  slips  key  into 
DvMOur' s pocket.)  An  idea:  suppose  you  felt  in  your 
pocket  ? 

All  {rising).  Yes !    Suppose  you  did ! 

DuMONT.  I  will  not  feel  in  my  pockets.  How  could 
it  be  there  ?  It's  a  patent  key.  This  is  more  than  any 
man  can  bear.  First,  Charles  is  one  man's  son,  and 
then  he's  another's,  and  then  he's  nobody's,  and  be 
damned  to  him!  And  then  there's  my  key  lost;  and 
then  there's  your  key !  What  is  your  key  ?  Where  is 
your  key  ?  Where  isn't  it  ?  And  why  is  it  like  mine, 
only  mine's  a  patent?  The  long  and  short  of  it  is  this: 
that  I'm  going  to  bed,  and  that  you're  all  going  to  bed, 
and  that  I  refuse  to  hear  another  word  upon  the  sub- 
ject or  upon  any  subject.     There ! 

Macaire.  Bitten. 

Bertrand.  Sold  again. 

429 


>     Aside. 


MACAIRE 

(Aline  and  Maids  extinguish  hanging  lamps  aver  ta^ 
bles,  R.  and  L.     Stage  lighted  only  by  guests'  candles.) 

Charles.  But,  sir,  I  cannot  decently  retire  to  rest 
till  I  embrace  my  honoured  parent.     Which  is  it  to  be  ? 

Macaire.  Charles,  to  my 

DuMONT.  Embrace  neither  of  them;  embrace  nobody; 
there  has  been  too  much  of  this  sickening  folly.  To 
bed!!!  (Exit  violently  R.  U.  E.  All  the  charadlers 
troop  slowly  upstairs,  talking  in  dumb  show.  Bertrand 
and  Macaire  remain  in  front  C,  watching  them  go.) 

Bertrand.  Sold  again,  captain  ? 

Macaire.  Ay,  they  will  have  it. 

Bertrand.  It?    What? 

Macaire.  The  worst,  Bertrand.  What  is  man?  —  a 
beast  of  prey.  An  hour  ago,  and  I'd  have  taken  a 
crust,  and  gone  in  peace.  But  no:  they  would  trick 
and  juggle,  curse  them;  they  would  wriggle  and  cheat! 
Well,  1  accept  the  challenge :  war  to  the  knife. 

Bertrand.  Murder  ? 

Macaire.  What  is  murder  ?  A  legal  term  for  a  man 
dying.  Call  it  Fate,  and  that's  philosophy;  call  me 
Providence,  and  you  talk  religion.  Die  ?  Why,  that 
is  what  man  is  made  for;  we  are  full  of  mortal  parts; 
we  are  all  as  good  as  dead  already,  we  hang  so  close 
upon  the  brink:  touch  a  button,  and  the  strongest  falls 

in  dissolution.     Now,  see  how  easy:  I  take  you 

(grappling  him). 

Bertrand.     Macaire  —  O  no ! 

Macaire.  Fool!  would  1  harm  a  fly,  when  I  had  no- 
thing to  gain  ?  As  the  butcher  with  the  sheep,  I  kill 
to  live;  and  where  is  the  difference  between  man  and 
mutton?  pride  and  a  tailor's  bill.     Murder?    I  know 

430 


MACAIRE 

who  made  that  name  —  a  man  crouching  from  the 
knife  1  Selfishness  made  it  —  the  aggregated  egotism 
called  society;  but  I  meet  that  with  a  selfishness  as 
great.  Has  he  money  ?  Have  I  none  —  great  powers, 
none  ?  Well,  then,  I  fatten  and  manure  my  life  with 
his. 

Bertrand.  You  frighten  me.     Who  is  it  ? 

Macaire.  Mark  well.  {The  Marquis  opens  the  door 
of  Number  Thirteen,  and  the  rest,  clustering  round,  hid 
him  good-night.  As  they  begin  to  disperse  along  the 
gallery  he  enters  and  shuts  the  door,)  Out,  out.  brief 
candle!    That  man  is  doomed. 

Drop 


43Z 


ACT  m 

SCENE  I 

Macaire,  Bertrand 

/Is  the  curtain  rises,  the  stage  is  dark  and  empty,  En^ 
ter  Macaire,  L.  U,  £.,  with  lantern.    He  looks  about, 

lAxckXKE  {calling  off).     S'st! 

Bertrand  {entering  L.  U.  E. ).     It's  creeping  dark. 

Macaire.  Blinding  dark;  and  a  good  job. 

Bertrand.  Macaire,  I'm  cold;  my  very  hair's  cold. 

Macaire.  Work,  work  will  warm  you:  to  your  keys. 

Bertrand.  No,  Macaire,  it's  a  horror.  You'll  not  kill 
him ;  let's  have  no  bloodshed. 

Macaire.  None:  it  spoils  your  clothes.  Now,  see: 
you  have  keys  and  you  have  experience;  up  that  stair, 
and  pick  me  the  lock  of  that  man's  door.  Pick  me  the 
lock  of  that  man's  door. 

Bertrand.  May  I  take  the  light  ? 

Macaire.  You  may  not.  Go.  (Bertrand  mounts  the 
stairs,  and  is  seen  picking  the  lock  of  Number  Thirteen. ) 
The  earth  spins  eastward,  and  the  day  is  at  the  door. 
Yet  half  an  hour  of  covert,  and  the  sun  will  be  afoot, 
the  discoverer,  the  great  policeman.  Yet,  half  an  hour 
of  night,  the  good,  hiding,  practicable  night;  and  lo! 
at  a  touch  the  gas-jet  of  the  universe  turned  on ;  and 

4^2 


MACAIRE 

Up  with  the  sun  gets  the  providence  of  honest  people, 
puts  off  his  night-cap,  throws  up  his  window,  stares 
out  of  house  —  and  the  rogue  must  skulk  again  till  dusk. 
Yet  half  an  hour  and,  Macaire,  you  shall  be  safe  and 
rich.  If  yon  fool  —  my  fool  —  would  but  miscarry,  if 
the  dolt  within  would  hear  and  leap  upon  him,  I  could 
intervene,  kill  both,  by  heaven  —  both!— cry  murder 
with  the  best,  and  at  one  stroke  reap  honour  and  gold. 
For,  Bertrand  dead 

Bertrand  {from  above),     S'st,  Macaire! 

Macaire.  Is  it  done,  dear  boy  }  Come  down.  (Ber- 
trand descends.)  Sit  down  beside  this  light:  this  is 
your  ring  of  safety,  budge  not  beyond  —  the  night  is 
crowded  with  hobgoblins.  See  ghosts  and  tremble  like 
a  jelly  if  you  must;  but  remember  men  are  my  con- 
cern; and  at  the  creak  of  a  man's  foot,  hist!  {Sharpen- 
ing his  knife  upon  his  sleeve. )  What  is  a  knife  ?  A  plain 
man's  sword. 

Bertrand.  Not  the  knife,  Macaire;  O,  not  the  knife! 

Macaire.  My  name  is  Self- Defence.  {He  goes  up- 
stairs and  enters  Number  Thirteen. ) 

Bertrand.  He's  in.  I  hear  a  board  creak.  What 
a  night,  what  a  night!  Will  he  hear  him?  O  Lord, 
my  poor  Macaire!  I  hear  nothing,  nothing.  The 
night's  as  empty  as  a  dream:  he  must  hear  him;  he 
cannot  help  but  hear  him;  and  then  —  O  Macaire,  Ma- 
caire, come  back  to  me.  It's  death,  and  it's  death, 
and  it's  death.  Red,  red:  a  corpse.  Macaire  to  kill, 
Macaire  to  die.?  I'd  rather  starve,  I'd  rather  perish, 
than  either:  I'm  not  fit,  I'm  not  fit,  for  either!  Why, 
how's  this  ?  I  want  to  cry.  {A  stroke,  and  a  groan, 
from  above.)     God  Almighty,   one  of  them's  gone! 

433 


MACAIRE 

(He  falls  with  his  head  on  table,  R.  Macaire  appears 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  descends,  comes  airily  forward 
and  touches  him  on  the  shoulder.  Bertrand,  with  a 
cry,  turns  and  falls  upon  his  neck.)  O,  O,  and  I 
thought  I  had  lost  him.     {Day  breaking. ) 

Macaire.  The  contrary,  dear  boy.  {He  produces 
notes. ) 

Bertrand.  What  was  it  like  ? 

Macaire.  Like  ?  Nothing.   A  little  blood,  a  dead  man. 

Bertrand.  Blood!  .  .  .  (Dead!  He  falls  at  table 
sobbing.  Macaire  divides  the  notes  into  two  parts;  on 
the  smaller  he  wipes  the  bloody  knife,  and  folding  the 
stains  inward,  thrusts  the  notes  into  Bertrand's/j^^.) 

Macaire.  What  is  life  without  the  pleasures  of  the  table ! 

Bertrand  {taking  and  pocketing  notes).  Macaire, 
I  can't  get  over  it. 

Macaire.  My  mark  is  the  frontier,  and  at  top  speed. 
Don't  hang  your  jaw  at  me.  Up,  up,  at  the  double; 
pick  me  that  cash-box;  and  let's  get  the  damned  house 
fairly  cleared. 

Bertrand.  I  can't.     Did  he  bleed  much  ? 

Macaire.  Bleed  ?  Must  I  bleed  you  ?  To  work,  or 
I'm  dangero.us. 

Bertrand.  It's  all  right,  Macaire;  I'm  going. 

Macaire.  Better  so:  an  old  friend  is  nearly  sacred. 
{Full  daylight:  lights  up.     Macaire  blows  out  lantern.) 

Bertrand.  Where's  the  key  ? 

Macaire.  Key  ?    I  tell  you  to  pick  it. 

Bertrand  {with  the  box).  But  it's  a  patent  lock. 
Where  is  the  key  ?    You  had  it. 

Macaire.  Will  you  pick  that  lock  ? 

Bertrand.  I  can't:  it's  a  patent.     Where's  the  key? 
434 


MACAIRE 

Macaire.  If  you  will  have  it,  I  put  it  back  in  that  old 
ass's  pocket. 
Bertrand.  Bitten,  I  think.     (Macaike  dancing  mad.) 

SCENE  II 
To  these,  DuMONT 

DuMONT.  Ah,  friends,   up  so  early?    Catching  the 
worm,  catching  the  worm  ? 

Macaire.  Good-morn-^ 
ing,  good-morning!         I      Both  sitting  on  the  table 

Bertrand.  Early  birds,  [        and  dissembling  box. 
early  birds.  ^ 

DuMONT.  By  the   way,   very   remarkable  thing:    I 
found  that  key. 

Macaire.  No! 

Bertrand.  O! 

DuMONT.  Perhaps  a  still  more  remarkable  thing:  it 
was  my  key  that  had  the  twisted  handle. 

Macatre.  I  told  you  so. 

DuMONT.  Now,  what  we  have  to  do  is  to  get  the 
cash-box.     Hallo!  what's  that  your  sitting  on  ? 

Bertrand.  Nothing. 

Macaire.  The  table!     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Dumont.  Why,  it's  my  cash-box! 

Macaire.  Why,  so  it  is ! 

Dumont.  It's  very  singular. 

Macaire.  Diabolishly  singular. 

Bertrand.  Early  worms,  early  worms! 

Dumont  {blowing  in  key).  Well,  I  suppose  you  are 
still  willing  to  begone  } 

Macaire.  More  than  willing,  my  dear  soul:  pressed, 
435 


MACAIRE 

I  may  say,  for  time;  for  though  it  had  quite  escaped 
my  memory,  I  have  an  appointment  in  Turin  with  a 
lady  of  title. 

DuMONT  {at  box).  It's  very  odd.  (Blows  in  hey.) 
it's  a  singular  thing  {blowing),  key  won't  turn.  It's  a 
patent.  Some  one  must  have  tampered  with  the  lock 
{blowing).  It's  strangely  singular,  it's  singularly  sin- 
gular! I've  shown  this  key  to  commercial  gentlemen^ 
all  the  way  from  Paris:  they  never  saw  a  better  keyl 
{more  business).  Well  {giving  it  up  and  looking  re^ 
proachfutty  on  key),  that's  pretty  singular. 

Macaire.  Let  me  try.  {He  tries,  and  flings  down 
the  key  with  a  curse.)     Bitten. 

Bertrand.  Sold  again. 

DuMONT  {picking  up  key).  It's  a  patent  key. 

Macaire.  {to  Bertrand).  The  game's  up:  we  must 
save  the  swag.  {To  Dumont.)  Sir,  since  your  key, 
on  which  I  invoke  the  blight  of  Egypt,  has  once  more 
defaulted,  my  feelings  are  unequal  to  a  repetition  of 
yesterday's  distress,  and  I  shall  simply  pad  the  hoof. 
From  Turin  you  shall  receive  the  address  of  my  banker, 
and  may  prosperity  attend  your  ventures.  ( To  Ber- 
trand.) Now,  boy!  (To  Dumont.)  Embrace  my  fath- 
erless child!  farewell!  (Macaire  and  Bertrand  turn  to 
go  off,  and  are  met  in  the  door  by  the  Gendarmes.) 

SCENE  III 
To  these,  the  Brigadier  and  Gendarmes 


Brigadier.  Let  no  man  leave  the  house. 
Macaire.  Bitten. 
Bertrand.  Sold  again. 

436 


Y    Aside. 


MACAIRE 

DuMONT.  Welcome,  old  friend! 

Brigadier.  It  is  not  the  friend  that  comes;  it  is  the 
Brigadier.  Summon  your  guests:  I  must  investigate 
their  passports.  I  am  in  pursuit  of  a  notorious  male- 
factor, Robert  Macaire. 

DuMONT.  But  I  was  led  to  believe  that  both  Macaire 
^nd  his  accomplice  had  been  arrested  and  condemned. 

Brigadier.  They  were,  but  they  have  once  more  es- 
caped for  the  moment,  and  justice  is  indefatigable. 
{He  sits  at  table  R.)    Dumont,  a  bottle  of  white  wine. 

Macaire  {to  Dumont).  My  excellent  friend,  I  will 
<iischarge  your  commission,  and  return  with  all  speed. 
{Going. ) 

Brigadier.  Halt! 

Macaire  {returning:  as  if  he  saw  Brigadier  for  the 
first  time).  Ha  ?  a  member  of  the  force  }  Charmed, 
I'm  sure.  But  you  misconceive  me:  I  return  at  once, 
and  my  friend  remains  behind  to  answer  for  me. 

Brigadier.  Justice  is  insensible  to  friendship.  I  shall 
deal  with  you  in  due  time.     Dumont,  that  bottle. 

Macaire.  Sir,  my  friend  and  I,  who  are  students 
of  character,  would  grasp  the  opportunity  to  share  and 
—  may  one  add  ?  — to  pay  the  bottle.     Dumont,  three! 

Bertrand.  For  God's  sake!  {Enter  Aline  and 
Maids.) 

Macaire.  My  friend  is  an  author:  so,  in  a  humbler 
way,  am  I.  Your  knowledge  of  the  criminal  classes 
naturally  tempts  one  to  pursue  so  interesting  an  ac- 
quaintance. 

Brigadier.  Justice  is  impartial.  Gentlemen,  your 
health. 

Macaire.  Will  not  these  brave  fellows  join  us  ? 

437 


MACAIRE 

Brigadier.  They  are  on  duty ;  but  what  matters  ? 

Macaire.  My  dear  sir,  what  is  duty  ?  duty  is  my  eye. 

Brigadier  (solemnly).  And  Betty  Martin.  (Gen- 
darmes sit  at  table. ) 

Macaire  to  Bertrand).  Dear  friend,  sit  down. 

Bertrand  {sitting  down).  O  Lord ! 

Brigadier  (to  Macaire).  You  seem  to  be  a  gentleman 
of  considerable  intelligence. 

Macaire.  I  fear,  sir,  you  flatter.  One  has  lived,  one 
has  loved,  and  one  remembers:  that  is  all.  One's  Lives 
of  Celebrated  Criminals  has  met  with  a  certain  success, 
and  one  is  ever  in  quest  of  fresh  material. 

DuMONT.  By  the  way,  a  singular  thing  about  my 
patent  key. 

Brigadier.  This  gentleman  is  speaking. 

Macaire.  Excellent  Dumont!  he  means  no  harm. 
This  Macaire  is  not  personally  known  to  you  ? 

Brigadier.  Are  you  connected  with  justice  ? 

Macaire.  Ah,  sir,  justice  is  a  point  above  a  poor 
author. 

Brigadier  (with  glass).  Justice  is  the  very  devil. 

Macaire.  My  dear  sir,  my  friend  and  I,  I  regret  to 
say,  have  an  appointment  in  Lyons,  or  I  could  spend 
my  life  in  this  society.  Charge  your  glasses :  one  hour 
to  madness  and  to  joy!  What  is  to-morrow?  the 
enemy  of  to-day.  Wine  ?  the  bath  of  life.  One  mo- 
ment :  I  find  I  have  forgotten  my  watch.  (He  makes 
for  the  door. ) 

Brigadier.  Halt! 

Macaire.  Sir,  what  is  this  jest  ? 

Brigadier.  Sentry  at  the  door.     Your  passports. 

Macaire.  My  good  man,  with  all  the  pleasure  in 
438 


MACAIRE 

life.    {Gives  papers.     The  Brigadier  puts  on  spe^acles^ 
and  examines  them.) 

Bertrand  {risingy  and  passing  round  to  Macaire's 
other  side).    It's  life  and  death:  they  must  soon  find  it. 

Macaire  {aside).  Don't  I  know  ?  My  heart's  like 
fire  in  my  body. 

Brigadier.  Your  name  is  ? 

Macaire.  It  is;  one's  name  is  not  unknown. 

Brigadier.  Justice  exacts  your  name. 

Macaire.  Henri-Frederic  de  Latour  de  Main  de  la 
Tonnerre  de  Brest. 

Brigadier.  Your  profession  ? 

Macaire.  Gentleman. 

Brigadier.  No,  but  what  is  your  trade  ? 

Macaire.  I  am  an  analytical  chymist. 

Brigadier.  Justice  is  inscrutable.  Your  papers  are 
in  order.     {To  Bertrand.)    Now,  sir,  and  yours? 

Bertrand.  I  feel  kind  of  ill. 

Macaire.  Bertrand,  this  gentleman  addresses  you. 
He  is  not  one  of  us;  in  other  scenes,  in  the  gay  and 
giddy  world  of  fashion,  one  is  his  superior.  But  to- 
day he  represents  the  majesty  of  law;  and  as  a  citizen 
it  is  one's  pride  to  do  him  honour. 

Brigadier.  Those  are  my  sentiments. 

Bertrand.  I  beg  your  pardon,  I {Gives  papers, ) 

Brigadier.  Your  name  ? 

Bertrand.  Napoleon. 

Brigadier.  What?  In  your  passport  it  is  written 
Bertrand. 

Bertrand.  It's  this  way:  I  was  born  Bertrand,  and 
then  I  took  the  name  of  Napoleon,  and  I  mostly  always 
call  myself  either  Napoleon  or  Bertrand. 

439 


MACAIRE 

Brigadier.  The  truth  is  always  best  Your  pro- 
fession ? 

Bertrand.  I  am  an  orphan. 

Brigadier.  What  the  devil!  {To  Macaire.)  Is  your 
friend  an  idiot  ? 

Macaire.  Pardon  me,  he  is  a  poet. 

Brigadier.  Poetry  is  a  great  hindrance  to  the  ends 
of  justice.     Well,  take  your  papers. 

Macaire.  Then  we  may  go  ? 

SCENE  IV 

To  these,  Charles,  who  is  seen  on  the  gallery,  going  to 

the  door  of  Number  Thirteen.     Afterwards 

all  the  characters  but  the  Notary 

and  the  MARauis 

Brigadier.  One  glass  more.  (Bertrand  touches  Ma- 
caire, and  points  to  Charles,  who  enters  Number  Thir- 
teen. ) 

Macaire.  No  more,  no  more,  no  more. 

Brigadier  {rising  and  taking  Macaire  by  the  arm),  I 
stipulate! 

Macaire.  Engagement  in  Turin! 

Brigadier.  Turin  ? 

Macaire.  Lyons,  Lyons! 

Bertrand.   For  God's  sake.  .  .  , 

Brigadier.   Well,  good-bye! 

Macaire.  Good-bye,  good 

Charles  {from  within).  Murder!  Help!  {Appear- 
ing.)    Help  here!    The  Marquis  is  murdered. 

Brigadier.  Stand  to  the  door.  A  man  up  there.  {A 
Gendarme  hurries  up  staircase  into  Number  Thirteen, 

440 


MACAIRE 

Charles  following  him.  Enter  on  both  sides  of  gallery 
the  remaining  characters  of  the  piece,  except  the  Notary 
and  the  Marquis.) 

Macaire.   Bitten,  by  God !         \    a  -/i 

Bertrand.   Lost!  > 

Brigadier  (to  Dumont).  John  Paul  Dumont,  I  arrest 
you. 

Dumont.  Do  your  duty,  officer.  I  can  answer  for 
myself  and  my  own  people. 

Brigadier.  Yes,  but  these  strangers  ? 

Dumont.  They  are  strangers  to  me. 

Macaire.  I  am  an  honest  man:  I  stand  upon  my 
rights:  search  me;  or  search  this  person,  of  whom  I 
know  too  little.     {Smiting  his  brow.)     By  heaven,  1  see 

it  all!    This  morning {To  Bertrand.)    How,  sir, 

did  you  dare  to  flaunt  your  booty  in  my  very  face  .^ 
{To  Brigadier.)  He  showed  me  notes;  he  was  up  ere 
day;  search  him,  and  you'll  find.  There  stands  the 
murderer. 

Bertrand.  O,  Macaire!  {He  is  seiT^ed  and  searched 
and  the  notes  are  found. ) 

Brigadier.  There  is  blood  upon  the  notes.  Hand- 
cuffs.    (Macaire  edging  towards  the  door.) 

Bertrand.  Macaire,  you  may  as  well  take  the  bundle. 
(Macaire  is  stopped  by  sentry,  and  comes  front,  R.) 

Charles  {re- appearing).  Stop,  I  know  the  truth. 
{He  comes  down.)  Brigadier,  my  father  is  not  dead. 
He  is  not  even  dangerously  hurt.  He  has  spoken. 
There  is  the  would-be  assassin. 

Macaire.  Hell!  {He  darts  across  to  the  staircase, 
and  turns  on  the  second  step,  flashing  out  the  knife.) 
Back,  hounds!    {He  springs  up  the  stair,  and  confronts 

441 


MACAIRE 

them  from  the  top. )  Fools,  I  am  Robert  Macaire !  {As 
Macaire  turns  to  flee,  he  is  met  by  the  gendarme  coming 
out  of  Number  Thirteen;  he  stands  an  instant  checked, 
is  shot  from  the  stage,  and  falls  headlong  backward 
down  the  stair.  Bertrand,  with  a  cry,  breaks  from  the 
gendarmes,  kneels  at  his  side,  and  raises  his  head.) 

Bertrand.  Macaire,  Macaire,  forgive  me.  I  didn't 
blab;  you  know  I  didn't  blab. 

Macaire.  Sold  again,  old  boy.  Sold  for  the  last 
time;  at  least,  the  last  time  this  side  death.  Death  — 
what  is  death  ?    {Jie  dies.) 

CURTAIN 


44» 


FABLES 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

The  fable,  as  a  form  of  literary  art,  had  at  all  times  a  great  attraction 
for  Mr.  Stevenson;  and  in  an  early  review  of  Lord  Lytton's  "  Fables 
in  Song  "  he  attempted  to  define  some  of  its  proper  aims  and  methods. 
To  this  class  of  work,  according  to  his  conception  of  the  matter, 
belonged  essentially  several  of  his  own  semi-supernatural  stories, 
such  as  "Will  of  the  Mill,"  "  Markheim,"  and  even  ''Jekyll  and 
Hyde  " ;  in  the  composition  of  which  there  was  combined  with  the 
dream  element,  in  at  least  an  equal  measure,  the  element  of  moral 
allegory  or  apologue.  He  was  accustomed  also  to  try  his  hand  oc- 
casionally on  the  composition  of  fables  more  strictly  so  called,  and 
cast  in  the  conventional  brief  and  familiar  form.  By  the  winter  of 
1887-88  he  had  enough  of  these  by  him,  together  with  a  few  others 
running  to  greater  length,  and  conceived  in  a  more  mystic  and  leg- 
endary vein,  to  enable  him,  as  he  thought,  to  see  his  way  towards 
making  a  book  of  them.  Such  a  book  he  promised  to  Messrs. 
Longman  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  paid  him  in  New  York  by  a 
member  of  the  firm  in  the  spring  of  1888.  Then  came  his  voyage 
in  the  Pacific  and  residence  at  Samoa.  Among  the  multitude  of 
new  interests  and  images  which  filled  his  mind  during  the  last  six 
years  of  his  life,  he  seems  to  have  given  little  thought  to  the  pro- 
posed book  of  fables.  One  or  two,  however,  as  will  be  seen,  were 
added  to  the  collection  during  this  period.  That  collection,  as  it 
stood  at  the  time  of  his  death,  was  certainly  not  what  its  author 
had  meant  it  to  be.  Whether  it  would  have  seen  the  light  had  he 
lived  is  doubtful :  but  after  his  death  it  seemed  to  his  representatives 
of  sufficient  interest  to  be  handed  to  Messrs.  Longman,  in  part  ful- 
filment of  his  old  pledge  to  them,  for  publication  in  their  Magazine. 
Its  inclusion  in  the  present  collected  edition  of  his  works  naturally 
follows. 

S.  C 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  TALE 

AFTER  the  32nd  chapter  of  Treasure  Island,  two 
.  of  the  puppets  strolled  out  to  have  a  pipe  before 
business  should  begin  again,  and  met  in  an  open  place 
not  far  from  the  story. 

"Good  morning,  Cap'n,"  said  the  first,  with  a  man- 
o'-war  salute  and  a  beaming  countenance. 

"Ah,  Silver!  "  grunted  the  other.  "  You're  in  a  bad 
way.  Silver." 

"Now,  Cap'n  Smollett,"  remonstrated  Silver,  "dooty 
is  dooty,  as  I  knows,  and  none  better;  but  we're  off 
dooty  now;  and  I  can't  see  no  call  to  keep  up  the 
morality  business." 

"You're  a  damned  rogue,  my  man,"  said  the 
Captain. 

"Come,  come,  Cap'n,  be  just,"  returned  the  other. 
^'There's  no  call  to  be  angry  with  me  in  earnest. 
I'm  ony  a  chara'ter  in  a  sea  story.  I  don't  really 
exist." 

"Well,  I  don't  really  exist  either,"  says  the  Captain, 
"  which  seems  to  meet  that." 

"  I  wouldn  t  set  no  limits  to  what  a  virtuous  char- 
ii'ter    might    consider  argument,"   responded    Silver. 

447 


FABLES 

*'  But  I'm  the  villain  of  this  tale,  I  am;  and  speaking  as 
one  seafaring  man  to  another,  what  I  want  to  know  is, 
what's  the  odds?" 

**  Were  you  never  taught  your  catechism  ?  "  said  the 
Captain.  *'  Don't  you  know  there's  such  a  thing  as  an 
Author?" 

"Such  a  thing  as  a  Author?"  returned  John,  deri- 
sively. "And  who  better'n  me?  And  the  p'int  is,  if 
the  Author  made  you,  he  made  Long  John,  and  he 
made  Hands,  and  Pew,  and  George  Merry  —  not  that 
George  is  up  to  much,  for  he's  little  more'n  a  name; 
and  he  made  Flint,  what  there  is  of  him;  and  he  made 
this  here  mutiny,  you  keep  such  a  work  about;  and  he 
had  Tom  Redruth  shot;  and — well,  if  that's  a  Author,, 
give  me  Pew!" 

"Don't  you  believe  in  a  future  state?"  said  Smollett.. 
**Do  you  think  there's  nothing  but  the  present  story- 
paper?" 

"I  don't  rightly  know  for  that,"  said  Silver;  "and  f 
don't  see  what  it's  got  to  do  with  it,  anyway.  What 
I  know  is  this :  if  there  is  sich  a  thing  as  a  Author,  I'm 
his  favourite  chara'ter.  He  does  me  fathoms  better'n 
he  does  you — fathoms,  he  does.  And  he  likes  doing 
me.  He  keeps  me  on  deck  mostly  all  the  time,  crutch 
and  all;  and  he  leaves  you  measling  in  the  hold,  where 
nobody  can't  see  you,  nor  wants  to,  and  you  may  lay 
to  that!  If  there  is  a  Author,  by  thunder,  but  he's  on 
my  side,  and  you  may  lay  to  it! " 

"I  see  he's  giving  you  a  long  rope,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. **  But  that  can't  change  a  man's  convictions.  I 
know  the  Author  respects  me ;  I  feel  it  in  my  bones ; 

448 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  TALE 

when  you  and  I  had  that  talk  at  the  blockhouse  door, 
who  do  you  think  he  was  for,  my  man  ?  " 

**And  don't  he  respect  me?"  cried  Silver.  **Ah, 
you  should  'a*  heard  me  putting  down  my  mutiny, 
George  Merry  and  Morgan  and  that  lot,  no  longer  ago'n 
last  chapter;  you'd  'a'  heard  something  then!  You'd 
*a'  seen  what  the  Author  thinks  o'  me!  But  come  now, 
do  you  consider  yourself  a  virtuous  chara'ter  clean 
through?'* 

**  God  forbid!  "  said  Captain  Smollett  solemnly.  *'I 
am  a  man  that  tries  to  do  his  duty,  and  makes  a  mess 
of  it  as  often  as  not.  I'm  not  a  very  popular  man  at 
home,  Silver,  I'm  afraid,"  and  the  Captain  sighed. 

"  Ah,"  says  Silver.  *'  Then  how  about  this  sequel  of 
yours  ?  Are  you  to  be  Cap'n  Smollett  just  the  same  as 
ever,  and  not  very  popular  at  home,  says  you!  And  if 
so,  why  it's  Treasure  Island  over  again,  by  thunder; 
and  I'll  be  Long  John,  and  Pew'll  be  Pew;  and  we'll 
have  another  mutiny,  as  like  as  not.  Or  are  you  to  be 
somebody  else  ?  And  if  so,  why,  what  the  better  are 
you  ?  and  what  the  worse  am  I  ?  " 

"Why,  look  here,  my  man,"  returned  the  Captain, 
**  1  can't  understand  how  this  story  comes  about  at  all, 
can  1  ?  I  can't  see  how  you  and  I,  who  don't  exist, 
should  get  to  speaking  here,  and  smoke  our  pipes,  for 
all  the  world  like  reality  ?  Very  well,  then,  who  am  I 
to  pipe  up  with  my  opinions  ?  I  know  the  Author's  on 
the  side  of  good ;  he  tells  me  so,  it  runs  out  of  his  pen 
as  he  writes.  Well,  that's  all  I  need  to  know;  I'll  take 
my  chance  upon  the  rest." 

**It's  a  fact  he  seemed  to  be  against  George  Merry," 
449 


FABLES 

Silver  admitted  musingly.  "But  George  is  little  more'n 
a  name  at  the  best  of  it,"  he  added,  brightening.  "And 
to  get  into  soundings  for  once.  What  is  this  good  ? 
I  made  a  mutiny,  and  I  been  a  gentleman  o'  fortune; 
well,  but  by  all  stories,  you  ain't  no  such  saint.  I'm  a 
man  that  keeps  company  very  easy;  even  by  your  own 
account,  you  ain't,  and  to  my  certain  knowledge,  you're 
a  devil  to  haze.  Which  is  which  ?  Which  is  good, 
and  which  bad  ?  Ah,  you  tell  me  that!  Here  we  are 
in  stays,  and  you  may  lay  to  it! " 

"We're  none  of  us  perfect,"  replied  the  Captain. 
"That's  a  fact  of  religion,  my  man.  All  I  can  say  is,  I 
try  to  do  my  duty;  and  if  you  try  to  do  yours,  I  can't 
compliment  you  on  your  success." 

"And  so  you  was  the  judge,  was  you  ?  "  said  Silver, 
derisively. 

"I  would  be  both  judge  and  hangman  for  you,  my 
man,  and  never  turn  a  hair,"  returned  the  Captain. 
"  But  1  get  beyond  that:  it  mayn't  be  sound  theology, 
but  it's  common  sense,  that  what  is  good  is  useful  too 
—  or  there  and  thereabout,  for  I  don't  set  up  to  be  a 
thinker.  Now,  where  would  a  story  go  to,  if  there 
were  no  virtuous  characters  ?  " 

"  If  you  go  to  that,"  replied  Silver,  "where  would  a 
story  begin,  if  there  wasn't  no  villains.^" 

"Well,  that's  pretty  much  my  thought," said  Captain 
Smollett.  "  The  author  has  to  get  a  story;  that's  what 
he  wants ;  and  to  get  a  story,  and  to  have  a  man  like 
the  doctor  (say)  given  a  proper  chance,  he  has  to  put 
in  men  like  you  and  Hands.  But  he's  on  the  right 
side;  and  you  mind  your  eye!  You're  not  through 
this  story  yet;  there's  trouble  coming  for  you." 

450 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  TALE 

*'  What'll  you  bet  ?  "  asked  John. 

'*Much  I  care  if  there  ain't,"  returned  the  Captain. 
"  I'm  glad  enough  to  be  Alexander  Smollett,  bad  as 
he  is;  and  I  thank  my  stars  upon  my  knees  that  Tm 
not  Silver.  But  there's  the  ink-bottle  opening.  To 
quarters ! " 

And  indeed  the  Author  was  just  then  beginning  to 
write  the  words : 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 


451 


II 

THE  SINKING  SHIP 

"Sir,"  said  the  first  lieutenant,  bursting  into  the 
Captain's  cabin,  **the  ship  is  going  down." 

''Very  well,  Mr.  Spoker,"  said  the  Captain;  "but 
that  is  no  reason  for  going  about  half-shaved.  Exercise 
your  mind  a  moment,  Mr.  Spoker,  and  you  will  see 
that  to  the  philosophic  eye  there  is  nothing  new  in  our 
position:  the  ship  (if  she  is  to  go  down  at  all)  may  be 
said  to  have  been  going  down  since  she  was  launched." 

"She  is  settling  fast,"  said  the  first  lieutenant,  as  he 
returned  from  shaving. 

" Fast,  Mr.  Spoker ? " asked  the  Captain.  "The  ex- 
pression is  a  strange  one,  for  time  (if  you  will  think 
of  it)  is  only  relative." 

"Sir,"  said  the  lieutenant,  "I  think  it  is  scarcely 
worth  while  to  embark  in  such  a  discussion  when  we 
shall  all  be  in  Davy  Jones's  Locker  in  ten  minutes." 

"By  parity  of  reasoning,"  returned  the  Captain  gen- 
tly, "it  would  never  be  worth  while  to  begin  any 
inquiry  of  importance;  the  odds  are  always  over- 
whelming that  we  must  die  before  we  shall  have 
brought  it  to  an  end.  You  have  not  considered,  Mr. 
Spoker,  the  situation  of  man,"  said  the  Captain,  smiling 
and  shaking  his  head. 

452 


THE  SINKING  SHIP 

**I  am  much  more  engaged  in  considering  the  posi- 
tion of  the  ship,"  said  Mr.  Spoken 

** Spoken  like  a  good  officer,"  replied  the  Captain, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  lieutenant's  shoulder. 

On  deck  they  found  the  men  had  broken  into  the 
spirit-room,  and  were  fast  getting  drunk. 

**My  men,"  said  the  Captain,  ''there  is  no  sense  in 
this.  The  ship  is  going  down,  you  will  tell  me,  in  ten 
minutes:  well,  and  what  then?  To  the  philosophic 
eye,  there  is  nothing  new  in  our  position.  All  our 
lives  long,  we  may  have  been  about  to  break  a  blood- 
vessel or  to  be  struck  by  lightning,  not  merely  in  ten 
minutes,  but  in  ten  seconds;  and  that  has  not  pre- 
vented us  from  eating  dinner,  no,  nor  from  putting 
money  in  the  Savings  Bank.  I  assure  you,  with  my 
hand  on  my  heart,  I  fail  to  comprehend  your  attitude." 

The  men  were  already  too  far  gone  to  pay  much 
heed. 

"This  is  a  very  painful  sight,  Mr.  Spoker,"  said  the 
Captain. 

**  And  yet  to  the  philosophic  eye,  or  whatever  it  is," 
replied  the  first  lieutenant,  "they  may  be  said  to  have 
been  getting  drunk  since  they  came  aboard." 

"I  do  not  know  if  you  always  follow  my  thought, 
Mr.  Spoker,"  returned  the  Captain  gently.  "But  let 
us  proceed." 

In  the  powder  magazine  they  found  an  old  salt  smok- 
ing his  pipe. 

"Good  God,"  cried  the  Captain,  "what  are  you 
about.?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  old  salt,  apologetically,  "they 
told  me  as  she  were  going  down." 

453 


FABLES 

"And  suppose  she  were?"  said  the  Captain.  "To 
the  philosophic  eye,  there  would  be  nothing  new  in  our 
position.  Life,  my  old  shipmate,  life,  at  any  moment 
and  in  any  view,  is  as  dangerous  as  a  sinking  ship;  and 
yet  it  is  man's  handsome  fashion  to  carry  umbrellas,  to 
wear  indiarubber  overshoes,  to  begin  vast  works,  and 
to  conduct  himself  in  every  way  as  if  he  might  hope  to 
be  eternal.  And  for  my  own  poor  part  I  should  despise 
the  man  who,  even  on  board  a  sinking  ship,  should 
omit  to  take  a  pill  or  to  wind  up  his  watch.  That,  my 
friend,  would  not  be  the  human  attitude." 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Spoker.  "But  what 
is  precisely  the  difference  between  shaving  in  a  sinking 
ship  and  smoking  in  a  powder  magazine  ?" 

"Or  doing  anything  at  all  in  any  conceivable  cir- 
cumstances?" cried  the  Captain.  "Perfectly  conclu- 
sive; give  me  a  cigar! " 

Two  minutes  aftferwards  the  ship  blew  up  with  a 
glorious  detonation. 


454 


m 

THE  TWO  MATCHES 

One  day  there  was  a  traveller  in  the  woods  in  Cali- 
fornia, in  the  dry  season,  when  the  Trades  were  blow- 
ing strong.  He  had  ridden  a  long  way,  and  he  was 
tired  and  hungry,  and  dismounted  from  his  horse  to 
smoke  a  pipe.  But  when  he  felt  in  his  pocket,  he 
found  but  two  matches.  He  struck  the  first,  and  it 
would  not  light. 

**  Here  is  a  pretty  state  of  things,"  said  the  traveller. 
"Dying  for  a  smoke;  only  one  match  left;  and  that 
certain  to  miss  fire!  Was  there  ever  a  creature  so 
unfortunate?  And  yet,"  thought  the  traveller,  ''sup- 
pose I  light  this  match,  and  smoke  my  pipe,  and 
shake  out  the  dottle  here  in  the  grass — the  grass  might 
catch  on  fire,  for  it  is  dry  like  tinder;  and  while  I  snatch 
out  the  flames  in  front,  they  might  evade  and  run  be- 
hind me,  and  seize  upon  yon  bush  of  poison  oak; 
before  I  could  reach  it,  that  would  have  blazed  up ; 
over  the  bush  I  see  a  pine  tree  hung  with  moss;  that 
too  would  fly  in  fire  upon  the  instant  to  its  topmost 
bough;  and  the  flame  of  that  long  torch  —  how  would 
the  trade  wind  take  and  brandish  that  through  the 
inflammable  forest!  I  hear  this  dell  roar  in  a  moment 
with  the  joint  voice  of  wind  and  fire,  I  see  myself  gallop 

455 


FABLES 

for  my  soul,  and  the  flying  conflagration  chase  and  out- 
flank me  through  the  hills;  I  see  this  pleasant  forest 
burn  for  days,  and  the  cattle  roasted,  and  the  springs 
dried  up,  and  the  farmer  ruined,  and  his  children  cast 
upon  the  world.  What  a  world  hangs  upon  this 
moment!" 

With  that  he  struck  the  match,  and  it  missed  fire. 

**  Thank  God,"  said  the  traveller,  and  put  his  pipe 
in  his  pocket 


^ 


IV 

THE  SICK  MAN  AND  THE  FIREMAN 

There  was  once  a  sick  man  in  a  burning  house,  to 
whom  there  entered  a  fireman.  **Do  not  save  me," 
said  the  sick  man.     ** Save  those  who  are  strong." 

*' Will  you  kindly  tell  me  why?"  inquired  the  fire- 
man, for  he  was  a  civil  fellow. 

''Nothing  could  possibly  be  fairer,"  said  the  sick 
man.  "The  strong  should  be  preferred  in  all  cases, 
because  they  are  of  more  service  in  the  world." 

The  fireman  pondered  a  while,  for  he  was  a  man  of 
some  philosophy.  "Granted,"  said  he  at  last,  as  a 
part  of  the  roof  fell  in ;  "but  for  the  sake  of  conversa- 
tion, what  would  you  lay  down  as  the  proper  service 
of  the  strong  ?  " 

"Nothing  can  possibly  be  easier,"  returned  the  sick 
man:  "the  proper  service  of  the  strong  is  to  help  the 
weak." 

Again  the  fireman  reflected,  for  there  was  nothing 
hasty  about  this  excellent  creature.  "I  could  forgive 
you  being  sick,"  he  said  at  last,  as  a  portion  of  the  wall 
fell  out,  "but  I  cannot  bear  your  being  such  a  fool." 
And  with  that  he  heaved  up  his  fireman's  axe,  for  he 
was  eminently  just,  and  clove  the  sick  man  to  the  bed. 


457 


THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  INNKEEPER 

Once  upon  a  time  the  devil  stayed  at  an  inn,  where  no 
one  knew  him,  for  they  were  people  whose  education 
had  been  neglected.  He  was  bent  on  mischief,  and  for 
a  time  kept  everybody  by  the  ears.  But  at  last  the 
innkeeper  set  a  watch  upon  the  devil  and  took  him  in 
the  fact. 

The  innkeeper  got  a  rope's  end. 

*'  Now  I  am  going  to  thrash  you,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

**  You  have  no  right  to  be  angry  with  me,"  said  the 
devil.  '*  I  am  only  the  devil,  and  it  is  my  nature  to  do 
wrong." 

**  Is  that  so  ?"  asked  the  innkeeper. 

'*  Fact,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  devil. 

**You  really  cannot  help  doing  ill?"  asked  the  inn- 
keeper. 

**Not  in  the  smallest,"  said  the  devil;  "it  would  be 
useless  cruelty  to  thrash  a  thing  like  me." 

'Mt  would  indeed,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

And  he  made  a  noose  and  hanged  the  devil. 

**  There,"  said  the  innkeeper. 


458 


VI 

THE  PENITENT 

A  MAN  met  a  lad  weeping.  **  What  do  you  weep 
for?"  he  asked. 

*'  I  am  weeping  for  my  sins,"  said  the  lad. 

'*  You  must  have  little  to  do,"  said  the  man. 

The  next  day  they  met  again.  Once  more  the  lad 
was  weeping.  "  Why  do  you  weep  now  ?  "  asked  the 
man. 

'*1  am  weeping  because  I  have  nothing  to  eat,"  said 
the  lad. 

*'  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that,"  said  the  man. 


459 


VII 

THE  YELLOW  PAINT 

In  a  certain  city,  there  lived  a  physician  who  sold 
yellow  paint.  This  was  of  so  singular  a  virtue  that 
whoso  was  bedaubed  with  it  from  head  to  heel  was  set 
free  from  the  dangers  of  life,  and  the  bondage  of  sin, 
and  the  fear  of  death  forever.  So  the  physician  said  in 
his  prospectus;  and  so  said  all  the  citizens  in  the  city; 
and  there  was  nothing  more  urgent  in  men's  hearts  than 
to  be  properly  painted  themselves,  and  nothing  they 
took  more  delight  in  than  to  see  others  painted.  There 
was  in  the  same  city  a  young  man  of  a  very  good  fam- 
ily but  of  a  somewhat  reckless  life;  who  had  reached 
the  age  of  manhood  and  would  have  nothing  to  say  to 
the  paint:  **  To-morrow  was  soon  enough,"  said  he; 
and  when  the  morrow  came  he  would  still  put  it  oflT. 
So  he  might  have  continued  to  do  until  his  death;  only, 
he  had  a  friend  of  about  his  own  age  and  much  of  his 
own  manners;  and  this  youth,  taking  a  walk  in  the 
public  street,  with  not  one  fleck  of  paint  upon  his  body, 
was  suddenly  run  down  by  a  water-cart  and  cut  off"  in 
the  heyday  of  his  nakedness.  This  shook  the  other  to 
the  soul;  so  that  I  never  beheld  a  man  more  earnest  to 
be  painted;  and  on  the  very  same  evening,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  all  his  family,  to  appropriate  music,  and  him- 
self weeping  aloud,  he  received  three  complete  coats 

460 


THE   YELLOW   PAINT 

and  a  touch  of  varnish  on  the  top.  The  physician  (who 
was  himself  affected  even  to  tears)  protested  he  had 
never  done  a  job  so  thorough. 

"  Some  two  months  afterwards,  the  young  man  was 
carried  on  a  stretcher  to  the  physician's  house. 

**What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  he  cried,  as  soon 
as  the  door  was  opened.  "I  was  to  be  set  free  from 
all  the  dangers  of  life;  and  here  have  I  been  run  down 
by  that  self-same  water-cart,  and  my  leg  is  broken." 

**  Dear  me! "  said  the  physician.  '*  This  is  very  sad. 
But  I  perceive  I  must  explain  to  you  the  action  of  my 
paint.  A  broken  bone  is  a  mighty  small  affair  at  the 
worst  of  it;  and  it  belongs  to  a  class  of  accidents  to 
which  my  paint  is  quite  inapplicable.  Sin,  my  dear 
young  friend,  sin  is  the  sole  calamity  that  a  wise  man 
should  apprehend;  it  is  against  sin  that  I  have  fitted 
you  out;  and  when  you  come  to  be  tempted,  you  will 
give  me  news  of  my  paint !  " 

"O!"  said  the  young  man,  *'I  did  not  understand 
that,  and  it  seems  rather  disappointing.  But  I  have  no 
doubt  all  is  for  the  best;  and  in  the  meanwhile,  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  set  my  leg." 

"That  is  none  of  my  business,"  said  the  physician; 
*'  but  if  your  bearers  will  carry  you  round  the  corner  to 
the  surgeon's,  I  feel  sure  he  will  afford  relief." 

Some  three  years  later,  the  young  man  came  run- 
ning to  the  physician's  house  in  a  great  perturbation. 
'*What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  cried.  "Here  was 
I  to  be  set  free  from  the  bondage  of  sin ;  and  I  have  just 
committed  forgery,  arson,  and  murder." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  physician.  "  This  is  very  seri- 
ous.    Off  with  your  clothes  at  once."    And  as  soon  as 

461 


FABLES 

the  young  man  had  stripped,  he  examined  him  from 
head  to  foot.  "No,"  he  cried  with  great  relief,  '* there 
is  not  a  flake  broken.  Cheer  up,  my  young  friend, 
your  paint  is  as  good  as  new." 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  young  man,  "and  what 
then  can  be  the  use  of  it  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  the  physician,  "I  perceive  I  must  ex- 
plain to  you  the  nature  of  the  action  of  my  paint.  It 
does  not  exactly  prevent  sin ;  it  extenuates  instead  the 
painful  consequences.  It  is  not  so  much  for  this  world 
as  for  the  next;  it  is  not  against  life;  in  short,  it  is 
against  death  that  I  have  fitted  you  out.  And  when 
you  come  to  die,  you  will  give  me  news  of  my  paint." 

"O!"  cried  the  young  man,  "I  had  not  understood 
that,  and  it  seems  a  little  disappointing.  But,  there, 
no  doubt  all  is  for  the  best:  and  in  the  meanwhile,  I 
shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  help  me  to  undo  the  evil 
I  have  brought  on  innocent  persons." 

"That  is  none  of  my  business,"  said  the  physician; 
"  but  if  you  will  go  round  the  corner  to  the  police  office, 
I  feel  sure  it  will  afford  you  relief  to  give  yourself  up." 

Six  weeks  later,  the  physician  was  called  to  the 
town  gaol. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  cried  the  young 
man.  "Here  am  I  literally  crusted  with  your  paint; 
and  I  have  broken  my  leg,  and  committed  all  the  crimes 
in  the  calendar,  and  must  be  hanged  to-morrow;  and 
am  in  the  meanwhile  in  a  fear  so  extreme  that  I  lack 
words  to  picture  it." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  physician.  "This  is  really 
amazing.  Well,  well;  perhaps,  if  you  had  not  been 
painted,  you  would  have  been  more  frightened  still." 

46a 


Vlll 

THE  HOUSE  OF  ELD 

So  soon  as  the  child  began  to  speak,  the  gyve  was 
riveted ;  and  the  boys  and  girls  limped  about  their  play 
like  convicts.  Doubtless  it  was  more  pitiable  to  see 
and  more  painful  to  bear  in  youth;  but  even  the  grown 
folk,  besides  being  very  unhandy  on  their  feet,  were 
often  sick  with  ulcers. 

About  the  time  when  Jack  was  ten  years  old,  many 
strangers  began  to  journey  through  that  country.  These 
he  beheld  going  lightly  by  on  the  long  roads,  and  the 
thing  amazed  him.  "I  wonder  how  it  comes,"  he 
asked,  **  that  all  these  strangers  are  so  quick  afoot,  and 
we  must  drag  about  our  fetter." 

**My  dear  boy,"  said  his  uncle,  the  catechist,  "do 
not  complain  about  your  fetter,  for  it  is  the  only  thing 
that  makes  life  worth  living.  None  are  happy,  none 
are  good,  none  are  respectable,  that  are  not  gyved  like 
us.  And  I  must  tell  you,  besides,  it  is  very  dangerous 
talk.  If  you  grumble  of  your  iron,  you  will  have  no 
luck;  if  ever  you  take  it  off,  you  will  be  instantly 
smitten  by  a  thunderbolt." 

"Are  there  no  thunderbolts  for  these  strangers.^" 
asked  Jack. 

"Jupiter  is  longsuffering  to  the  benighted,"  returned 
the  catechist. 

463 


FABLES 

*'Upon  my  word,  I  could  wish  I  had  been  less  for- 
tunate, "  said  Jack.  **  For  if  I  had  been  born  benighted, 
I  might  now  be  going  free;  and  it  cannot  be  denied 
the  iron  is  inconvenient,  and  the  ulcer  hurts." 

"Ah!"  cried  his  uncle,  "  do  not  envy  the  heathen! 
Theirs  is  a  sad  lot!  Ah,  poor  souls,  if  they  but  knew 
the  joys  of  being  fettered !  Poor  souls,  my  heart  yearns 
for  them.  But  the  truth  is  they  are  vile,  odious,  inso- 
lent, ill-conditioned,  stinking  brutes,  not  truly  human 
—  for  what  is  a  man  without  a  fetter?  —  and  you 
cannot  be  too  particular  not  to  touch  or  speak  with 
them." 

After  this  talk,  the  child  would  never  pass  one  of  the 
unfettered  on  the  road  but  what  he  spat  at  him  and 
called  him  names,  which  was  the  practice  of  the  chil- 
dren in  that  part. 

It  chanced  one  day,  when  he  was  fifteen,  he  went 
into  the  woods,  and  the  ulcer  pained  him.  It  was  a 
fair  day,  with  a  blue  sky;  all  the  birds  were  singing; 
but  Jack  nursed  his  foot.  Presently,  another  song  be- 
gan ;  it  sounded  like  the  singing  of  a  person,  only  far 
more  gay ;  at  the  same  time,  there  was  a  beating  on  the 
earth.  Jack  put  aside  the  leaves;  and  there  was  a  lad 
of  his  own  village,  leaping,  and  dancing  and  singing  to 
himself  in  a  green  dell;  and  on  the  grass  beside  him 
lay  the  dancer's  iron. 

**0!"  cried  Jack,  " you  have  your  fetter  off !  " 

*'  For  God's  sake,  don't  tell  your  uncle !  "  cried  the  lad. 

**  If  you  fear  my  uncle,"  returned  Jack,  **  why  do  you 
not  fear  the  thunderbolt  ?  " 

"That  is  only  an  old  wives'  tale,"  said  the  other. 
*'It  is  only  told  to  children.     Scores  of  us  come  here 

464 


THE   HOUSE  OF  ELD 

among  the  woods  and  dance  for  nights  together,  and 
are  none  the  worse." 

This  put  Jack  in  a  thousand  new  thoughts.  He  was 
a  grave  lad;  he  had  no  mind  to  dance  himself;  he 
wore  his  fetter  manfully  and  tended  his  ulcer  without 
complaint.  But  he  loved  the  less  to  be  deceived  or  to 
see  others  cheated.  He  began  to  lie  in  wait  for  heathen 
travellers,  at  covert  parts  of  the  road,  and  in  the  dusk 
of  the  day,  so  that  he  might  speak  with  them  unseen ; 
and  these  were  greatly  taken  with  their  wayside  ques- 
tioner, and  told  him  things  of  weight.  The  wearing 
of  gyves  (they  said)  was  no  command  of  Jupiter's.  It 
was  the  contrivance  of  a  white-faced  thing,  a  sorcerer, 
that  dwelt  in  that  country  in  the  Wood  of  Eld.  He  was 
one  like  Glaucus  that  could  change  his  shape,  yet  he 
could  be  always  told;  for  when  he  was  crossed,  he 
gobbled  like  a  turkey.  He  had  three  lives;  but  the 
third  smiting  would  make  an  end  of  him  indeed;  and 
with  that  his  house  of  sorcery  would  vanish,  the  gyves 
fall,  and  the  villagers  take  hands  and  dance  like  children. 

*'And  in  your  country?'*  Jack  would  ask. 

But  at  this  the  travellers,  with  one  accord,  would  put 
him  off;  until  Jack  began  to  suppose  there  was  no  land 
entirely  happy.  Or,  if  there  were,  it  must  be  one  that 
kept  its  folk  at  home ;  which  was  natural  enough. 

But  the  case  of  the  gyves  weighed  upon  him.  The 
sight  of  the  children  limping  stuck  in  his  eyes;  the 
groans  of  such  as  dressed  their  ulcers  haunted  him. 
And  it  came  at  last  in  his  mind  that  he  was  born  to 
free  them. 

There  was  in  that  village  a  sword  of  heavenly  forgery, 
beaten  upon  Vulcan's  anvil.     It  was  never  used  but  in 

465 


FABLES 

the  temple,  and  then  the  flat  of  it  only;  and  it  hung  on 
a  nail  by  the  catechist's  chimney.  Early  one  night. 
Jack  rose,  and  took  the  sword,  and  was  gone  out  of 
the  house  and  the  village  in  the  darkness. 

All  night  he  walked  at  a  venture;  and  when  day 
came,  he  met  strangers  going  to  the  fields.  Then  he 
asked  after  the  Wood  of  Eld  and  the  house  of  sorcery; 
and  one  said  north,  and  one  south;  until  Jack  saw 
that  they  deceived  him.  So  then,  when  he  asked  his 
way  of  any  man,  he  showed  the  bright  sword  naked ; 
and  at  that  the  gyve  on  the  man's  ankle  rang,  and  an- 
swered in  his  stead ;  and  the  word  was  still  Straight  on. 
But  the  man,  when  his  gyve  spoke,  spat  and  struck  at 
Jack,  and  threw  stones  at  him  as  he  went  away;  so 
that  his  head  was  broken. 

So  he  came  to  that  wood,  and  entered  in,  and  he 
was  aware  of  a  house  in  a  low  place,  where  funguses 
grew,  and  the  trees  met,  and  the  steaming  of  the  marsh 
arose  about  it  like  a  smoke.  It  was  a  fine  house,  and 
a  very  rambling;  some  parts  of  it  were  ancient  like  the 
hills,  and  some  but  of  yesterday,  and  none  finished ; 
and  all  the  ends  of  it  were  open,  so  that  you  could  go 
in  from  every  side.  Yet  it  was  in  good  repair,  and  all 
the  chimneys  smoked. 

Jack  went  in  through  the  gable;  and  there  was  one 
room  after  another,  all  bare,  but  all  furnished  in  part  so 
that  a  man  could  dwell  there;  and  in  each  there  was  a 
fire  burning  where  a  man  could  warm  himself,  and 
a  table  spread  where  he  might  eat.  But  Jack  saw  no- 
where any  living  creature;  only  the  bodies  of  some 
stuffed. 

"This  is  a  hospitable  house,"  said  Jack;  "but  the 
466 


THE   HOUSE  OF  ELD 

ground  must  be  quaggy  underneath,  for  at  every  step 
the  building  quakes." 

He  had  gone  some  time  in  the  house,  when  he  began 
to  be  hungry.  Then  he  looked  at  the  food,  and  at 
first  he  was  afraid ;  but  he  bared  the  sword,  and  by  the 
shining  of  the  sword,  it  seemed  the  food  was  honest. 
So  he  took  the  courage  to  sit  down  and  eat,  and  he 
was  refreshed  in  mind  and  body. 

**This  is  strange,"  thought  he,  "that  in  the  house 
of  sorcery,  there  should  be  food  so  wholesome." 

As  he  was  yet  eating,  there  came  into  that  room  the 
appearance  of  his  uncle,  and  Jack  was  afraid  because  he 
had  taken  the  sword.  But  his  uncle  was  never  more 
kind,  and  sat  down  to  meat  with  him,  and  praised 
him  because  he  had  taken  the  sword.  Never  had  these 
two  been  more  pleasantly  together,  and  Jack  was  full 
of  love  to  the  man. 

**It  was  very  well  done,"  said  his  uncle,  **  to  take 
the  sword  and  come  yourself  into  the  House  of  Eld ;  a 
good  thought  and  a  brave  deed.  But  now  you  are 
satisfied;  and  we  may  go  home  to  dinner  arm  in  arm." 

*'0,  dear,  no!"  said  Jack.  **I  am  not  satisfied 
yet." 

**How!"  cried  his  uncle.  "Are  you  not  warmed 
by  the  fire  ?    Does  not  this  food  sustain  you  ?  " 

**  I  see  the  food  to  be  wholesome,"  said  Jack,  **  and 
still  it  is  no  proof  that  a  man  should  wear  a  gyve  on  his 
right  leg." 

Now  at  this  the  appearance  of  his  uncle  gobbled  like 
a  turkey. 

"Jupiter! "  cried  Jack,  "  is  this  the  sorcerer  ?  " 

His  hand  held  back  and  his  heart  failed  him  for  the 
467 


FABLES 

love  he  bore  his  uncle;  but  he  heaved  up  the  sword  and 
smote  the  appearance  on  the  head;  and  it  cried  out 
aloud  with  the  voice  of  his  uncle;  and  fell  to  the 
ground;  and  a  little  bloodless  white  thing  fled  from  the 
room. 

The  cry  rang  in  Jack's  ears,  and  his  knees  smote  to- 
gether, and  conscience  cried  upon  him;  and  yet  he  was 
strengthened,  and  there  woke  in  his  bones  the  lust  of 
that  enchanter's  blood.  **  If  the  gyves  are  to  fall,"  said 
he,  •*!  must  go  through  with  this,  and  when  I  get 
home,  I  shall  fmd  my  uncle  dancing." 

So  he  went  on  after  the  bloodless  thing.  In  the  way, 
he  met  the  appearance  of  his  father;  and  his  father  was 
incensed,  and  railed  upon  him,  and  called  to  him  upon 
his  duty,  and  bade  him  be  home,  while  there  was  yet 
time.  *'  For  you  can  still,"  said  he,  **  be  home  by  sun- 
set; and  then  all  will  be  forgiven." 

"God  knows,"  said  Jack,  *M  fear  your  anger;  but 
yet  your  anger  does  not  prove  that  a  man  should  wear 
a  gyve  on  his  right  leg." 

And  at  that  the  appearance  of  his  father  gobbled  like 
a  turkey. 

"  Ah,  heaven,"  cried  Jack,  **  the  sorcerer  again! " 

The  blood  ran  backward  in  his  body  and  his  joints 
rebelled  against  him  for  the  love  he  bore  his  father;  but 
he  heaved  up  the  sword,  and  plunged  it  in  the  heart 
of  the  appearance;  and  the  appearance  cried  out  aloud 
with  the  voice  of  his  father;  and  feH  to  the  ground; 
and  a  little  bloodless  white  thing  fled  from  the  room. 

The  cry  rang  in  Jack's  ears,  and  his  soul  was  dark- 
ened; but  now  rage  came  to  him.  **  I  have  done  what 
I  dare  not  think  upon,"  said  he.     **I  will  go  to  an  end 

468 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ELD 

with  it,  or  perish.  And  when  I  get  home,  I  pray  God 
this  may  be  a  dfeam  and  I  may  find  my  father  dancing." 

So  he  went  on  after  the  bloodless  thing  that  had  es- 
caped ;  and  in  the  way  he  met  the  appearance  of  his 
mother,  and  she  wept.  "What  have  you  done?" 
she  cried.  *'What  is  this  that  you  have  done?  O, 
come  home  (where  you  may  be  by  bedtime)  ere  you 
do  more  ill  to  me  and  mine ;  for  it  is  enough  to  smite 
my  brother  and  your  father." 

"  Dear  mother,  it  is  not  these  that  I  have  smitten," 
said  Jack;  "it  was  but  the  enchanter  in  their  shape. 
And  even  if  I  had,  it  would  not  prove  that  a  man 
should  wear  a  gyve  on  his  right  leg." 

And  at  this  the  appearance  gobbled  like  a  turkey. 

He  never  knew  how  he  did  that;  but  he  swung  the 
sword  on  the  one  side,  and  clove  the  appearance 
through  the  midst;  and  it  cried  out  aloud  with  the 
voice  of  his  mother;  and  fell  to  the  ground;  and  with 
the  fall  of  it,  the  house  was  gone  from  over  Jack's  head, 
iind  he  stood  alone  in  the  woods,  and  the  gyve  was 
loosened  from  his  leg. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "the  enchanter  is  now  dead  and 
the  fetter  gone."  But  the  cries  rang  in  his  soul,  and 
the  day  was  like  night  to  him.  "This  has  been  a  sore 
business,"  said  he.  "  Let  me  get  forth  out  of  the  wood, 
and  see  the  good  that  I  have  done  to  others." 

He  thought  to  leave  the  fetter  where  it  lay,  but  when 
he  turned  to  go,  his  mind  was  otherwise.  So  he 
stooped  and  put  the  gyve  in  his  bosom ;  and  the  rough 
iron  galled  him  as  he  went,  and  his  bosom  bled. 

Now  when  he  was  forth  of  the  wood  upon  the  high- 
way, he  met  folk  returning  from  the  field;  and  those 

469 


FABLES 

he  met  had  no  fetter  on  the  right  leg,  but  behold !  they 
had  one  upon  the  left.  Jack  asked  them  what  it  sig- 
nified; and  they  said,  "that  was  the  new  wear,  for 
the  old  was  found  to  be  a  superstition."  Then  he 
looked  at  them  nearly;  and  there  was  a  new  ulcer  on 
the  left  ankle,  and  the  old  one  on  the  right  was  not  yet 
healed. 

"Now  may  God  forgive  me!"  cried  Jack,  **I  would 
I  were  well  home." 

And  when  he  was  home,  there  lay  his  uncle  smitten 
on  the  head,  and  his  father  pierced  through  the  heart, 
and  his  mother  cloven  through  the  midst.  And  he  sat 
in  the  lone  house  and  wept  beside  the  bodies. 

MORAL 

Old  is  the  tree  and  the  fruit  good, 
Very  old  and  thick  the  wood. 
Woodman,  is  your  courage  stout  ? 
Beware!  the  root  is  wrapped  about 
Your  mother's  heart,  your  father's  bones ; 
And  like  the  mandrake  comes  with  groans. 


4T» 


IX 

THE  FOUR  REFORMERS 

Four  reformers  met  under  a  bramble  bush.  They 
were  all  agreed  the  world  must  be  changed.  **We 
must  abolish  property,"  said  one. 

**  We  must  abolish  marriage,"  said  the  second. 

"We  must  abolish  God,"  said  the  third. 

*M  wish  we  could  abolish  work,"  said  the  fourth. 

**Do  not  let  us  get  beyond  practical  politics,"  said 
the  first.  **The  first  thing  is  to  reduce  men  to  a 
common  level." 

**The  first  thing,"  said  the  second,  **is  to  give  free- 
dom to  the  sexes." 

"The  first  thing,"  said  the  third,  **is  to  find  out 
how  to  do  it." 

"The  first  step,"  said  the  first,  "is  to  abolish  the 
Bible." 

"The  first  thing,"  said  the  second,  " is  to  abolish  the 
laws." 

"  The  first  thing,"  said  the  third,  "  is  to  abolish  man- 
kind." 


47i 


THE  MAN  AND  HIS  FRIEND 

A  MAN  quarrelled  with  his  friend. 

*M  have  been  much  deceived  in  you,"  said  the  man. 

And  the  friend  made  a  face  at  him  and  went  away. 

A  little  after,  they  both  died,  and  came  together  be- 
fore the  great  white  Justice  of  the  Peace.  It  began  to 
look  black  for  the  friend,  but  the  man  for  a  while  had  a 
clear  character  and  was  getting  in  good  spirits. 

"I  find  here  some  record  of  a  quarrel,"  said  the  jus- 
tice, looking  in  his  notes.  ''  Which  of  you  was  in  the 
wrong  ?  " 

**  He  was,"  said  the  man.  **  He  spoke  ill  of  me  be- 
hind my  back." 

**  Did  he  so  ?  "  said  the  justice.  "And  pray  how  did 
he  speak  about  your  neighbours  ?  " 

**  O,  he  had  always  a  nasty  tongue,"  said  the  man. 

*'  And  you  chose  him  for  your  friend  ?  "  cried  the  jus- 
tice.   "  My  good  fellow,  we  have  no  use  here  for  fools. " 

So  the  man  was  cast  in  the  pit,  and  the  friend  laughed 
out  aloud  in  the  dark  and  remained  to  be  tried  on  other 
charges. 


47a 


XI 

THE  READER 

"I  NEVER  read  such  an  impious  book,"  said  the  reader, 
throwing  it  on  the  floor. 

**  You  need  not  hurt  me,"  said  the  book;  **you  will 
only  get  less  for  me  second  hand,  and  I  did  not  write 
myself." 

*'That  is  true,"  said  the  reader.  **My  quarrel  is 
with  your  author." 

**Ah,  well,"  said  the  book,  **you  need  not  buy  his 
rant." 

**  That  is  true,"  said  the  reader.  *'  But  I  thought  him 
such  a  cheerful  writer." 

*'I  find  him  so,"  said  the  book. 

**  You  must  be  differently  made  from  me,"  said  the 
reader. 

"Let  me  tell  you  a  fable,"  said  the  book.  ** There 
were  two  men  wrecked  upon  a  desert  island;  one  of 
them  made  believe  he  was  at  home,  the  other  ad- 
mitted   " 

"Oh,  1  know  your  kind  of  fable,"  said  the  reader. 
"They  both  died." 

"And  so  they  did,"  said  the  book.  "No  doubt  of 
that.     And  everybody  else." 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  reader.  "Push  it  a  little 
further  for  this  once.    And  when  they  were  all  dead  ?  " 

473 


FABLES 

''They  were  in  God's  hands  the  same  as  before," 
said  the  book. 

*'Not  much  to  boast  of,  by  your  account,"  cried  the 
reader. 

**  Who  is  impious  now  ?  "  said  the  book. 

And  the  reader  put  him  on  the  fire. 

The  coward  crouches  from  the  rod. 
And  loathes  the  iron  face  of  God. 


474 


XII 

THE  CITIZEN   AND  THE  TRAVELLER 

"Look  round  you,"  said  the  citizen.  "This  is  the 
largest  market  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  surely  not,"  said  the  traveller. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  the  largest,"  said  the  citizen, 
"but  much  the  best." 

"You  are  certainly  wrong  there,"  said  the  traveller. 
"I  can  tell  you    ..." 

They  buried  the  stranger  at  the  dusk. 


45r5 


XIII 

THE  DISTINGUISHED  STRANGER 

Once  upon  a  time  there  came  to  this  earth  a  visitor 
from  a  neighbouring  planet.  And  he  was  met  at  the 
place  of  his  descent  by  a  great  philosopher,  who  was 
to  show  him  everything. 

First  of  all  they  came  through  a  wood,  and  the 
stranger  looked  upon  the  trees.  **  Whom  have  we 
here?"  said  he. 

''These  are  only  vegetables,"  said  the  philosopher. 
*'They  are  alive,  but  not  at  all  interesting." 

'  *  I  don't  know  about  that, "  said  the  stranger.  * '  They 
seem  to  have  very  good  manners.  Do  they  never 
speak?" 

**They  lack  the  gift,"  said  the  philosopher. 

**  Yet  I  think  I  hear  them  sing,"  said  the  other. 

**That  is  only  the  wind  among  the  leaves,"  said  the 
philosopher.  "I  will  explain  to  you  the  theory  of 
winds:  it  is  very  interesting." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  *'I  wish  I  knew  what 
they  are  thinking." 

''They  cannot  think,"  said  the  philosopher. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  returned  the  stranger: 
and  then  laying  his  hand  upon  a  trunk:  **I  like  these 
people,"  said  he. 

476 


THE   DISTINGUISHED   STRANGER 

*'They  are  not  people  at  all,"  said  the  philosopher. 
**Come  along." 

Next  they  came  through  a  meadow  where  there 
were  cows. 

''These  are  very  dirty  people,"  said  the  stranger. 

''They  are  not  people  at  all,"  said  the  philosopher; 
and  he  explained  what  a  cow  is  in  scientific  words 
which  I  have  forgotten. 

"That  is  all  one  to  me,"  said  the  stranger.  "But 
why  do  they  never  look  up  ?  " 

"Because  they  are  graminivorous,"  said  the  philos- 
opher; "and  to  live  upon  grass,  which  is  not  highly 
nutritious,  requires  so  close  an  attention  to  business 
that  they  have  no  time  to  think,  or  speak,  or  look  at 
the  scenery,  or  keep  themselves  clean." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that  is  one  way  to  live, 
no  doubt.  But  I  prefer  the  people  with  the  green 
heads." 

Next  they  came  into  a  city,  and  the  streets  were  full 
of  men  and  women. 

"These  are  very  odd  people,"  said  the  stranger. 

"They  are  the  people  of  the  greatest  nation  in  the 
world,"  said  the  philosopher. 

"Are  they  indeed?"  said  the  stranger.  "They 
scarcely  look  so." 


477 


XIV 

THE  CARTHORSES  AND  THE  SADDLEHORSB 

Two  carthorses,  a  gelding  and  a  mare,  were  brought 
to  Samoa,  and  put  in  the  same  field  with  a  saddlehorse 
to  run  free  on  the  island.  They  were  rather  afraid  to  go 
near  him,  for  they  saw  he  was  a  saddlehorse,  and  sup- 
posed he  would  not  speak  to  them.  Now  the  saddle- 
horse  had  never  seen  creatures  so  big.  **  These  must  be 
great  chiefs,"  thought  he,  and  he  approached  them  civ- 
illy. **  Lady  and  gentleman,"  said  he,  *M  understand 
you  are  from  the  colonies.  I  offer  you  my  affectionate 
compliments,  and  make  you  heartily  welcome  to  the 
island." 

The  colonials  looked  at  him  askance,  and  consulted 
with  each  other. 

*'Who  can  he  be  ?*'  said  the  gelding. 

**He  seems  suspiciously  civil,"  said  the  mare. 

"I  do  not  think  he  can  be  much  account,"  said  the 
gelding. 

**  Depend  upon  it  he  is  only  a  Kanaka,"  said  the 
mare. 

Then  they  turned  to  him. 

'*  Go  to  the  devil! "  said  the  gelding. 

"  I  wonder  at  your  impudence,  speaking  to  persons 
of  our  quality ! "  cried  the  mare. 

The  saddlehorse  went  away  by  himself.  **I  was 
right,"  said  he,  **they  are  great  chiefs." 

478 


XV 

THE  TADPOLE  AND  THE  FROG 

•*  Be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  the  frog.  "When  I 
was  a  tadpole,  I  had  no  tail." 

**Just  what  I  thought!"  said  the  tadpole.  "You 
never  were  a  tadpole." 


479 


XVI 


SOMETHING  IN   IT 

The  natives  told  him  many  tales.  In  particular,  they 
warned  him  of  the  house  of  yellow  reeds  tied  with 
black  sinnet,  how  anyone  who  touched  it  became  in- 
stantly the  prey  of  Akaanga,  and  was  handed  on  to 
him  by  Miru  the  ruddy,  and  hocussed  with  the  kava 
of  the  dead,  and  baked  in  the  ovens  and  eaten  by  the 
eaters  of  the  dead. 

** There  is  nothing  in  it,"  said  the  missionary. 

There  was  a  bay  upon  that  island,  a  very  fair  bay  to 
look  upon ;  but,  by  the  native  saying,  it  was  death  to 
bathe  there.  "There  is  nothing  in  that,"  said  the  mis- 
sionary;  and  he  came  to  the  bay  and  went  swimming. 
Presently  an  eddy  took  him  and  bore  him  towards 
the  reef.  "Oho!"  thought  the  missionary,  "it  seems 
there  is  something  in  it  after  all."  And  he  swam  the 
harder,  but  the  eddy  carried  him  away.  "I  do  not 
care  about  this  eddy,"  said  the  missionary;  and  even 
as  he  said  it,  he  was  aware  of  a  house  raised  on  piles 
above  the  sea;  it  was  built  of  yellow  reeds,  one  reed 
joined  with  another,  and  the  whole  bound  with  black 
sinnet;  a  ladder  led  to  the  door,  and  all  about  the 
house  hung  calabashes.  He  had  never  seen  such  a 
house,  nor  yet  such  calabashes;  and  the  eddy  set  for 

480 


SOMETHING  IN   IT 

the  ladder.  **This  is  singular,"  said  the  missionary, 
*'but  there  can  be  nothing  in  it."  And  he  laid  hold  of 
the  ladder  and  went  up.  It  was  a  fine  house;  but 
there  was  no  man  there;  and  when  the  missionary 
looked  back  he  saw  no  island,  only  the  heaving  of  the 
sea.  *•  It  is  strange  about  the  island,"  said  the  mission- 
ary, "but  who's  afraid  ?  my  stories  are  the  true  ones." 
And  he  laid  hold  of  a  calabash,  for  he  was  one  that 
loved  curiosities.  Now  he  had  no  sooner  laid  hand 
upon  the  calabash  than  that  which  he  handled,  and 
that  which  he  saw  and  stood  on,  burst  like  a  bubble 
and  was  gone;  and  night  closed  upon  him,  and  the 
waters,  and  the  meshes  of  the  net;  and  he  wallowed 
there  like  a  fish. 

*' A  body  would  think  there  was  something  in  this," 
said  the  missionary.  *'But  if  these  tales  are  true,  I 
wonder  what  about  my  tales!  " 

Now  the  flaming  of  Akaanga's  torch  drew  near  in 
the  night;  and  the  misshapen  hands  groped  in  the 
meshes  of  the  net;  and  they  took  the  missionary  be- 
tween the  finger  and  the  thumb,  and  bore  him  drip- 
ping in  the  night  and  silence  to  the  place  of  the  ovens 
of  Miru.  And  there  was  Miru,  ruddy  in  the  glow  of 
the  ovens ;  and  there  sat  her  four  daughters  and  made 
the  kava  of  the  dead;  and  there  sat  the  comers  out  of 
the  islands  of  the  living  dripping  and  lamenting. 

This  was  a  dread  place  to  reach  for  any  of  the  sons 
of  men.  But  of  all  who  ever  came  there,  the  missionary 
was  the  most  concerned;  and  to  make  things  worse 
the  person  next  him  was  a  convert  of  his  own. 

**  Aha,"  said  the  convert,  *'so  you  are  here  like  your 
neighbours  ?    And  how  about  all  your  stories  ?  " 

481 


FABLES 

"It  seems,"  said  the  missionary  with  bursting  tears, 
"that  there  was  nothing  in  them." 

By  this  the  kava  of  the  dead  was  ready  and  the 
daughters  of  Miru  began  to  intone  in  the  old  manner 
of  singing.  "  Gone  are  the  green  islands  and  the  bright 
sea,  the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  forty  million  stars, 
and  life  and  love  and  hope.  Henceforth  is  no  more, 
only  to  sit  in  the  night  and  silence,  and  see  your  friends 
devoured;  for  life  is  a  deceit  and  the  bandage  is  taken 
from  your  eyes." 

Now  when  the  singing  was  done,  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters came  with  the  bowl.  Desire  of  that  kava  rose  in 
the  missionary's  bosom ;  he  lusted  for  it  like  a  swim- 
mer for  the  land,  or  a  bridegroom  for  his  bride;  and  he 
reached  out  his  hand,  and  took  the  bowl,  and  would 
have  drunk.    And  then  he  remembered,  and  put  it  back. 

"  Drink!  "  sang  the  daughter  of  Miru.  "There  is  no 
kava  like  the  kava  of  the  dead,  and  to  drink  of  it  once 
is  the  reward  of  living." 

"I  thank  you.  It  smells  excellent,"  said  the  mis- 
sionary. "  But  I  am  a  blue-ribbon  man  myself;  and 
though  I  am  aware  there  is  a  difference  of  opinion  even 
in  our  own  confession,  I  have  always  held  kava  to  be 
excluded." 

"What!"  cried  the  convert.  "Are  you  going  to 
respect  a  taboo  at  a  time  like  this?  And  you  were 
always  so  opposed  to  taboos  when  you  were  alive!" 

"To  other  people's,"  said  the  missionary.  "Nevet 
to  my  own." 

"  But  yours  have  all  proved  wrong,"  said  the  convert. 

"It  looks  like  it,"  said  the  missionary,  "and  I  can't 
help  that.     No  reason  why  I  should  break  my  word." 

482 


SOMETHING  IN  IT 

"I  never  heard  the  like  of  this! "  cried  the  daughter 
of  Miru.     *'  Pray,  what  do  you  expect  to  gain  ?  " 

''This  is  not  the  point,"  said  the  missionary.  **I 
took  this  pledge  for  others,  I  am  not  going  to  break  it 
for  myself." 

The  daughter  of  Miru  was  puzzled;  she  came  and 
told  her  mother,  and  Miru  was  vexed;  and  they  went 
and  told  Akaanga. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  this,"  said  Akaanga; 
and  he  came  and  reasoned  with  the  missionary. 

"  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  right  and  wrong,"  said 
the  missionary;  "and  your  ovens  cannot  alter  that." 

"Give  the  kava  to  the  rest,"  said  Akaanga  to  the 
daughters  of  Miru.  "I  must  get  rid  of  this  sea-lawyer 
instantly,  or  worse  will  come  of  it." 

The  next  moment  the  missionary  came  up  in  the 
midst  of  the  sea,  and  there  before  him  were  the  palm 
trees  of  the  island.  He  swam  to  the  shore  gladly,  and 
landed.  Much  matter  of  thought  was  in  that  mission- 
ary's mind. 

"I  seem  to  have  been  misinformed  upon  some  points," 
said  he.  "  Perhaps  there  is  not  much  in  it  as  I  supposed ; 
but  there  is  something  in  it  after  all.  Let  me  be  glad 
of  that." 

And  he  rang  the  bell  for  service. 

MORAL 

The  sticks  break,  the  stones  crumble, 
The  eternal  altars  tilt  and  tumble. 
Sanctions  and  tales  dislimn  like  mist 
About  the  amazed  evangelist. 
He  stands  unshook  from  age  to  youth 
Upon  one  pin-point  of  the  truth. 
483 


XVII 

FAITH,  HALF-FAITH,  AND  NO  FAITH  AT  ALL 

In  the  ancient  days  there  went  three  men  upon  pil- 
grimage; one  was  a  priest,  and  one  was  a  virtuous  per- 
son, and  the  third  was  an  old  rover  with  his  axe. 

As  they  went,  the  priest  spoke  about  the  grounds  of 
faith. 

*' We  find  the  proofs  of  our  religion  in  the  works  of 
nature,"  said  he,  and  beat  his  breast. 

''That  is  true,"  said  the  virtuous  person. 

**The  peacock  has  a  scrannel  voice,"  said  the  priest, 
**as  has  been  laid  down  always  in  our  books.  How 
cheering!"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  like  one  that  wept. 
''How  comforting!" 

"  I  require  no  such  proofs,"  said  the  virtuous  person. 

"  Then  you  have  no  reasonable  faith,"  said  the  priest. 

"Great  is  the  right,  and  shall  prevail!"  cried  the 
virtuous  person.  "There  is  loyalty  in  my  soul;  be 
sure,  there  is  loyalty  in  the  mind  of  Odin." 

"These  are  but  playings  upon  words,"  returned  the 
priest.  "A  sackful  of  such  trash  is  nothing  to  the 
peacock." 

Just  then  they  passed  a  country  farm  where  there 
was  a  peacock  seated  on  a  rail,  and  the  bird  opened  its 
mouth  and  sang  with  the  voice  of  a  nightingale. 

"Where  are  you  now  ?"  asked  the  virtuous  person. 
484 


FAITH,  HALF-FAITH,  AND  NO   FAITH   AT   ALL 

"And  yet  this  shakes  not  me!     Great  is  the  truth  and 
shall  prevail! " 

''The  devil  fly  away  with  that  peacock!"  said  the 
priest;  and  he  was  downcast  for  a  mile  or  two. 

But  presently  they  came  to  a  shrine,  where  a  Fakeer 
performed  miracles. 

*' Ah!  "  said  the  priest,  *'here  are  the  true  grounds 
of  faith.  The  peacock  was  but  an  adminicle.  This  is 
the  base  of  our  religion."  And  he  beat  upon  his  breast 
and  groaned  like  one  with  colic. 

**Now  to  me,"  said  the  virtuous  person,  ** all  this  is 
as  little  to  the  purpose  as  the  peacock.  I  believe  be- 
cause I  see  the  right  is  great  and  must  prevail;  and  this 
Fakeer  might  carry  on  with  his  conjuring  tricks  till 
doomsday,  and  it  would  not  play  bluff  upon  a  man 
like  me." 

Now  at  this  the  Fakeer  was  so  much  incensed  that 
his  hand  trembled;  and  lo!  in  the  midst  of  a  miracle 
the  cards  fell  from  up  his  sleeve. 

"Where  are  you  now?"  asked  the  virtuous  person. 
"And  yet  it  shakes  not  me!" 

"The  devil  fly  away  with  the  Fakeer!"  cried  the 
priest.  "I  really  do  not  see  the  good  of  going  on  with 
this  pilgrimage." 

"Cheer  up!"  cried  the  virtuous  person.  "Great  is 
the  right  and  shall  prevail!" 

"If  you  are  quite  sure  it  will  prevail?"  says  the 
priest. 

"I  pledge  my  word  for  that,"  said  the  virtuous 
person. 

So  the  other  began  to  go  on  again  with  a  better 
heart. 

485 


FABLES 

At  last  one  came  running,  and  told  them  all  was  lost: 
that  the  powers  of  darkness  had  besieged  the  Heavenly 
Mansions,  that  Odin  was  to  die,  and  evil  triumph. 

*'I  have  been  grossly  deceived,"  cried  the  virtuous 
person. 

**A11  is  lost  now,"  said  the  priest. 

*'I  wonder  if  it  is  too  late  to  make  it  up  with  the 
devil  ?  "  said  the  virtuous  person. 

*'0,  I  hope  not,"  said  the  priest.  **  And  at  any  rate 
we  can  but  try.  But  what  are  you  doing  with  your 
axe  ?  "  says  he  to  the  rover. 

"  I  am  off  to  die  with  Odin,"  said  the  rover. 


486 


XVIII 

THE  TOUCHSTONE 

The  King  was  a  man  that  stood  well  before  the  world, 
his  smile  was  sweet  as  clover,  but  his  soul  withinsides 
was  as  little  as  a  pea.  He  had  two  sons;  and  the 
younger  son  was  a  boy  after  his  heart,  but  the  elder 
was  one  whom  he  feared.  It  befel  one  morning  that 
the  drum  sounded  in  the  dun  before  it  was  yet  day; 
and  the  King  rode  with  his  two  sons,  and  a  brave  array 
behind  them.  They  rode  two  hours,  and  came  to  the 
foot  of  a  brown  mountain  that  was  very  steep. 

**  Where  do  we  ride  ?"  said  the  elder  son. 

'*  Across  this  brown  mountain,"  said  the  King,  and 
smiled  to  himself. 

'*My  father  knows  what  he  is  doing,"  said  the 
younger  son. 

And  they  rode  two  hours  more,  and  came  to  the 
sides  of  a  black  river  that  was  wondrous  deep. 

'*  And  where  do  we  ride?"  asked  the  elder  son. 

**Over  this  black  river,"  said  the  King,  and  smiled 
to  himself. 

**My  father  knows  what  he  is  doing,"  said  the 
younger  son. 

And  they  rode  all  that  day,  and  about  the  time  of  the 
sunsetting  came  to  the  side  of  a  lake,  where  was  a 
great  dun. 

487 


FABLES 

"It  is  here  we  ride,"  said  the  King;  ''to  a  King's 
house,  and  a  priest's,  and  a  house  where  you  will  learn 
much.'* 

At  the  gates  of  the  dun,  the  King  who  was  a  priest 
met  them,  and  he  was  a  grave  man,  and  beside  him 
stood  his  daughter,  and  she  was  as  fair  as  the  morn, 
and  one  that  smiled  and  looked  down. 

''These  are  my  two  sons,"  said  the  first  King. 

"And  here  is  my  daughter,"  said  the  King  who  was 
a  priest. 

"She  is  a  wonderful  fine  maid,"  said  the  first  King, 
"and  I  like  her  manner  of  smiling." 

"They  are  wonderful  well-grown  lads,"  said  the 
second,  "and  I  like  their  gravity." 

And  then  the  two  Kings  looked  at  each  other,  and 
said,  "  The  thing  may  come  about." 

And  in  the  meanwhile  the  two  lads  looked  upon  the 
maid,  and  the  one  grew  pale  and  the  other  red;  and 
the  maid  looked  upon  the  ground  smiling. 

"  Here  is  the  maid  that  I  shall  marry,"  said  the  elder. 
"  For  I  think  she  smiled  upon  me." 

But  the  younger  plucked  his  father  by  the  sleeve. 
"Father,"  said  he,  "a  word  in  your  ear.  If  I  find  fa- 
vour in  your  sight,  might  not  I  wed  this  maid,  for  I 
think  she  smiles  upon  me?" 

' '  A  word  in  yours, "  said  the  King  his  father.  * '  Wait- 
ing is  good  hunting,  and  when  the  teeth  are  shut  the 
tongue  is  at  home." 

Now  they  were  come  into  the  dun,  and  feasted;  and 
this  was  a  great  house,  so  that  the  lads  were  aston- 
ished; and  the  King  that  was  a  priest  sat  at  the  end  of 
the  board  and  was  silent,  so  that  the  lads  were  filled 

488 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

with  reverence ;  and  the  maid  served  them  smiling  with 
downcast  eyes,  so  that  their  hearts  were  enlarged. 

Before  it  was  day,  the  elder  son  arose,  and  he  found 
the  maid  at  her  weaving,  for  she  was  a  diligent  girl. 
''Maid,"  quoth  he,  "I  would  fain  marry  you." 

"You  must  speak  with  my  father,"  said  she,  and 
she  looked  upon  the  ground  smiling,  and  became  like 
the  rose. 

"Her  heart  is  with  me,"  said  the  elder  son,  and  he 
went  down  to  the  lake  and  sang. 

A  little  after  came  the  younger  son.  **  Maid,"  quoth 
he,  "if  our  fathers  were  agreed,  I  would  like  well  to 
marry  you." 

"You  can  speak  to  my  father,"  said  she,  and  looked 
upon  the  ground  and  smiled  and  grew  like  the  rose." 

"She  is  a  dutiful  daughter,"  said  the  younger  son, 
"she  will  make  an  obedient  wife."  And  then  he 
thought,  "What  shall  I  do?"  and  he  remembered  the 
King  her  father  was  a  priest;  so  he  went  into  the 
temple  and  sacrificed  a  weasel  and  a  hare. 

Presently  the  news  got  about;  and  the  two  lads  and 
the  first  King  were  called  into  the  presence  of  the 
King  who  was  a  priest,  where  he  sat  upon  the  high 
seat. 

"Little  I  reck  of  gear,"  said  the  King  who  was  a 
priest,  "and  little  of  power.  For  we  live  here  among 
the  shadows  of  things,  and  the  heart  is  sick  of  seeing 
them.  And  we  stay  here  in  the  wind  like  raiment 
drying,  and  the  heart  is  weary  of  the  wind.  But  one 
thing  I  love,  and  that  is  truth ;  and  for  one  thing  will 
I  give  my  daughter,  and  that  is  the  trial  stone.  For  in 
the  light  of  that  stone  the  seeming  goes,  and  the  being 

489 


FABLES 

shows,  and  all  things  besides  are  worthless.  Therefore, 
lads,  if  ye  would  wed  my  daughter,  out  foot,  and  bring 
me  the  stone  of  touch,  for  that  is  the  price  of  her." 

"A  word  in  your  ear,"  said  the  younger  son  to  his 
father.     "I  think  we  do  very  well  without  this  stone." 

"A  word  in  yours,"  said  his  father.  **  I  am  of  your 
way  of  thinking;  but  when  the  teeth  are  shut  the 
tongue  is  at  home."  And  he  smiled  to  the  King  that 
was  a  priest. 

But  the  elder  son  got  to  his  feet,  and  called  the  King 
that  was  a  priest  by  the  name  of  father.  **  For  whether 
I  marry  the  maid  or  no,  I  will  call  you  by  that  word 
for  the  love  of  your  wisdom;  and  even  now  I  will  ride 
forth  and  search  the  world  for  the  stone  of  touch."  So 
he  said  farewell  and  rode  into  the  world. 

**I  think  1  will  go,  too,"  said  the  younger  son,  "if 
I  can  have  your  leave.  For  my  heart  goes  out  to  the 
maid." 

'*  You  will  ride  home  with  me,"  said  his  father. 

So  they  rode  home,  and  when  they  came  to  the  dun, 
the  King  had  his  son  into  his  treasury.  **Here,"  said 
he,  **is  the  touchstone  which  shows  truth;  for  there  is 
no  truth  but  plain  truth ;  and  if  you  will  look  in  this, 
you  will  see  yourself  as  you  are." 

And  the  younger  son  looked  in  it,  and  saw  his  face 
as  it  were  the  face  of  a  beardless  youth,  and  he  was 
well  enough  pleased;  for  the  thing  was  a  piece  of  a 
mirror. 

"  Here  is  no  such  great  thing  to  make  a  work  about," 
said  he;  **but  if  it  will  get  me  the  maid,  1  shall  never 
complain.  But  what  a  fool  is  my  brother  to  ride  into 
the  world,  and  the  thing  all  the  while  at  home." 

490 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

So  they  rode  back  to  the  other  dun,  and  showed  the 
mirror  to  the  King  that  was  a  priest;  and  when  he  had 
looked  in  it,  and  seen  himself  like  a  King,  and  his  house 
like  a  King's  house,  and  all  things  like  themselves,  he 
cried  out  and  blessed  God.  **For  now  I  know,"  said 
he,  '*  there  is  no  truth  but  the  plain  truth;  and  I  am  a 
King  indeed,  although  my  heart  misgave  me."  And 
he  pulled  down  his  temple,  and  built  a  new  one;  and 
then  the  younger  son  was  married  to  the  maid. 

In  the  meantime  the  elder  son  rode  into  the  world  to 
find  the  touchstone  of  the  trial  of  truth ;  and  whenever 
he  came  to  a  place  of  habitation,  he  would  ask  the  men 
if  they  had  heard  of  it.  And  in  every  place  the  men 
answered:  *'Not  only  have  we  heard  of  it,  but  we, 
alone  of  all  men,  possess  the  thing  itself,  and  it  hangs 
in  the  side  of  our  chimney  to  this  day."  Then  would 
the  elder  son  be  glad,  and  beg  for  a  sight  of  it.  And 
sometimes  it  would  be  a  piece  of  mirror,  that  showed 
the  seeming  of  things,  and  then  he  would  say,  '*This 
can  never  be,  for  there  should  be  more  than  seeming." 
And  sometimes  it  would  be  a  lump  of  coal,  which 
showed  nothing;  and  then  he  would  say,  "This  can 
never  be,  for  at  least  there  is  the  seeming."  And 
sometimes  it  would  be  a  touchstone  indeed,  beautiful 
in  hue,  adorned  with  polishing,  the  light  inhabiting  its 
sides;  and  when  he  found  this,  he  would  beg  the 
thing,  and  the  persons  of  that  place  would  give  it  him, 
for  all  men  were  very  generous  of  that  gift;  so  that  at 
the  last  he  had  his  wallet  full  of  them,  and  they  chinked 
together  when  he  rode;  and  when  he  halted  by  the 
side  of  the  way  he  would  take  them  out  and  try  them, 
till  his  head  turned  like  the  sails  upon  a  windmill. 

491 


FABLES 

**  A  murrain  upon  this  business! "  said  the  elder  son, 
"for  I  perceive  no  end  to  it.  Here  I  have  the  red,  and 
here  the  blue  and  the  green ;  and  to  me  they  seem  all 
excellent,  and  yet  shame  each  other.  A  murrain  on  the 
trade !  If  it  were  not  for  the  King  that  is  a  priest  and 
whom  I  have  called  my  father,  and  if  it  were  not  for 
the  fair  maid  of  the  dun  that  makes  my  mouth  to  sing 
and  my  heart  enlarge,  I  would  even  tumble  them  all 
into  the  salt  sea,  and  go  home  and  be  a  King  like  other 
folk." 

But  he  was  like  the  hunter  that  has  seen  a  stag  upon 
a  mountain,  so  that  the  night  may  fall,  and  the  fire  be 
kindled  and  the  lights  shine  in  his  house,  but  desire  of 
that  stag  is  single  in  his  bosom. 

Now  after  many  years  the  elder  son  came  upon  the 
sides  of  the  salt  sea;  and  it  was  night,  and  a  savage 
place,  and  the  clamour  of  the  sea  was  loud.  There  he 
was  aware  of  a  house,  and  a  man  that  sat  there  by  the 
light  of  a  candle,  for  he  had  no  fire.  Now  the  elder 
son  came  in  to  him,  and  the  man  gave  him  water  to 
drink,  for  he  had  no  bread;  and  wagged  his  head 
when  he  was  spoken  to,  for  he  had  no  words. 

**  Have  you  the  touchstone  of  truth?"  asked  the 
elder  son;  and  when  the  man  had  wagged  his  head, 
**I  might  have  known  that,"  cried  the  elder  son,  **I 
have  here  a  wallet  full  of  them ! "  And  with  that  he 
laughed,  although  his  heart  was  weary. 

And  with  that  the  man  laughed  too,  and  with  the 
fuflf  of  his  laughter  the  candle  went  out. 

"Sleep,"  said  the  man,  "for  now  I  think  you  have 
come  far  enough;  and  your  quest  is  ended,  and  my 
candle  is  out." 

49a 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

Now  when  the  morning  came,  the  man  gave  him  a 
clear  pebble  in  his  hand,  and  it  had  no  beauty  and  no 
colour,  and  the  elder  son  looked  upon  it  scornfully  and 
shook  his  head,  and  he  went  away,  for  it  seemed  a 
small  affair  to  him. 

All  that  day  he  rode,  and  his  mind  was  quiet,  and 
the  desire  of  the  chase  allayed.  "How  if  this  poor 
pebble  be  the  touchstone,  after  all?"  said  he;  and  he 
got  down  from  his  horse,  and  emptied  forth  his  wallet 
by  the  side  of  the  way.  Now,  in  the  light  of  each 
other,  all  the  touchstones  lost  their  hue  and  fire  and 
withered  like  stars  at  morning;  but  in  the  light  of  the 
pebble  their  beauty  remained,  only  the  pebble  was  the 
most  bright.  And  the  elder  son  smote  upon  his  brow. 
"How  if  this  be  the  truth  ?"  he  cried,  "that  all  are  a 
little  true?"  And  he  took  the  pebble,  and  turned  its 
light  upon  the  heavens,  and  they  deepened  above  him 
like  the  pit;  and  he  turned  it  on  the  hills,  and  the  hills 
were  cold  and  rugged,  but  life  ran  in  their  sides  so  that 
his  own  life  bounded;  and  he  turned  it  on  the  dust, 
and  he  beheld  the  dust  with  joy  and  terror;  and  he 
turned  it  on  himself,  and  kneeled  down  and  prayed. 

"Now  thanks  be  to  God,"  said  the  elder  son,  "I 
have  found  the  touchstone ;  and  now  I  may  turn  my 
reins,  and  ride  home  to  the  King  and  to  the  maid  of 
the  dun  that  makes  my  mouth  to  sing  and  my  heart 
enlarge." 

Now  when  he  came  to  the  dun,  he  saw  children 
playing  by  the  gate  where  the  King  had  met  him  in  the 
old  days;  and  this  stayed  his  pleasure,  for  he  thought  in 
his  heart,  "It  is  here  my  children  should  be  playing." 
And  when  he  came  into  the  hall,  there  was  his  brother 

493 


FABLES 

on  the  high  seat  and  the  maid  beside  him ;  and  at  that 
his  anger  rose,  for  he  thought  in  his  heart,  "  It  is  I  that 
should  be  sitting  there,  and  the  maid  beside  me." 

"Who  are  you?"  said  his  brother.  "And  what 
make  you  in  the  dun  ?  " 

"I  am  your  elder  brother,"  he  replied.  "And  I  am 
come  to  marry  the  maid,  for  I  have  brought  the  touch- 
stone of  truth." 

Then  the  younger  brother  laughed  aloud.  "  Why," 
said  he,  "I  found  the  touchstone  years  ago,  and  mar- 
ried the  maid,  and  there  are  our  children  playing  at  the 
gate." 

Now  at  this  the  elder  brother  grew  as  gray  as  the 
dawn.  "I  pray  you  have  dealt  justly,"  said  he,  "for 
I  perceive  my  life  is  lost." 

"Justly  ?  "  quoth  the  younger  brother.  "  It  becomes 
you  ill,  that  are  a  restless  man  and  a  runagate,  to  doubt 
my  justice  or  the  King  my  father's  that  are  sedentary 
folk  and  known  in  the  land." 

"Nay,"  said  the  elder  brother,  "you  have  all  else, 
have  patience  also;  and  suffer  me  to  say  the  world  is 
full  of  touchstones,  and  it  appears  not  easily  which  is 
true." 

"  1  have  no  shame  of  mine,"  said  the  younger  brother. 
"There  it  is,  and  look  in  it." 

So  the  elder  brother  looked  in  the  mirror,  and  he  was 
sore  amazed ;  for  he  was  an  old  man,  and  his  hair  was 
white  upon  his  head;  and  he  sat  down  in  the  hall  and 
wept  aloud. 

"Now,"  said  the  younger  brother,  "  see  what  a  fool's 
part  you  have  played,  that  ran  over  all  the  world  to 
seek  what  was  lying  in  our  father's  treasury,  and  came 

494 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

back  an  old  carle  for  the  dogs  to  bark  at,  and  without 
chick  or  child.  And  I  that  was  dutiful  and  wise  sit 
here  crowned  with  virtues  and  pleasures,  and  happy  in 
the  light  of  my  hearth." 

"Methinks  you  have  a  cruel  tongue,"  said  the  elder 
brother;  and  he  pulled  out  the  clear  pebble  and  turned 
its  light  on  his  brother;  and  behold  the  man  was  lying, 
his  soul  was  shrunk  into  the  smallness  of  a  pea,  and  his 
heart  was  a  bag  of  little  fears  like  scorpions,  and  love 
was  dead  in  his  bosom.  And  at  that  the  elder  brother 
cried  out  aloud,  and  turned  the  light  of  the  pebble  on 
the  maid,  and  lo !  she  was  but  a  mask  of  a  woman, 
and  withinsides  she  was  quite  dead,  and  she  smiled 
as  a  clock  ticks  and  knew  not  wherefore. 

**0h,  well,"  said  the  elder  brother,  "I  perceive  there 
is  both  good  and  bad.  So  fare  ye  all  as  well  as  ye 
may  in  the  dun ;  but  I  will  go  forth  into  the  world  with 
my  pebble  in  my  pocket." 


495 


XIX 

THE  POOR  THING 

There  was  a  man  in  the  islands  who  fished  for  his 
bare  bellyful,  and  took  his  life  in  his  hands  to  go  forth 
upon  the  sea  between  four  planks.  But  though  he  had 
much  ado,  he  was  merry  of  heart;  and  the  gulls  heard 
him  laugh  when  the  spray  met  him.  And  though  he 
had  little  lore,  he  was  sound  of  spirit;  and  when  the 
fish  came  to  his  hook  in  the  midwaters,  he  blessed 
God  without  weighing.  He  was  bitter  poor  in  goods 
and  bitter  ugly  of  countenance,  and  he  had  no  wife. 

It  fell  in  the  time  of  the  fishing,  that  the  man  awoke 
in  his  house  about  the  midst  of  the  afternoon.  The 
fire  burned  in  the  midst,  and  the  smoke  went  up  and 
the  sun  came  down  by  the  chimney.  And  the  man 
was  aware  of  the  likeness  of  one  that  warmed  his  hands 
at  the  red  peats. 

*'I  greet  you,"  said  the  man,  *'  in  the  name  of  God." 

**I  greet  you,"  said  he  that  warmed  his  hands,  **but 
not  in  the  name  of  God,  for  I  am  none  of  His;  nor  in 
the  name  of  Hell,  for  I  am  not  of  Hell.  For  I  am  but 
a  bloodless  thing,  less  than  wind  and  lighter  than  a 
sound,  and  the  wind  goes  through  me  like  a  net,  and 
I  am  broken  by  a  sound  and  shaken  by  the  cold." 

**Be  plain  with  me,"  said  the  man,  '*and  tell  me 
your  name  and  of  your  nature." 

aq6 


THE   POOR  THING 

**My  name,"  quoth  the  other,  "is  not  yet  named, 
and  my  nature  not  yet  sure.  For  I  am  part  of  a  man ; 
and  I  was  a  part  of  your  fathers,  and  went  out  to  fish 
and  fight  with  them  in  the  ancient  days.  But  now  is 
my  turn  not  yet  come;  and  I  wait  until  you  have  a 
wife,  and  then  shall  I  be  in  your  son,  and  a  brave  part 
of  him,  rejoicing  manfully  to  launch  the  boat  into  the 
surf,  skilful  to  direct  the  helm,  and  a  man  of  might 
where  the  ring  closes  and  the  blows  are  going." 

''This  is  a  marvellous  thing  to  hear,"  said  the  man; 
*'and  if  you  are  indeed  to  be  my  son,  I  fear  it  will  go 
ill  with  you ;  for  I  am  bitter  poor  in  goods  and  bitter 
ugly  in  face,  and  I  shall  never  get  me  a  wife  if  I  live  to 
the  age  of  eagles." 

''All  this  have  1  come  to  remedy,  my  Father,"  said 
the  Poor  Thing;  "for  we  must  go  this  night  to  the 
little  isle  of  sheep,  where  our  fathers  lie  in  the  dead- 
cairn,  and  to-morrow  to  the  Earl's  Hall,  and  there  shall 
you  find  a  wife  by  my  providing." 

So  the  man  rose  and  put  forth  his  boat  at  the  time 
of  the  sunsetting;  and  the  Poor  Thing  sat  in  the  prow, 
and  the  spray  blew  through  his  bones  like  snow,  and 
the  wind  whistled  in  his  teeth,  and  the  boat  dipped 
not  with  the  weight  of  him. 

"I  am  fearful  to  see  you,  my  son,"  said  the  man. 
*'  For  methinks  you  are  no  thing  of  God." 

"  It  is  only  the  wind  that  whistles  in  my  teeth,"  said 
the  Poor  Thing,  "and  there  is  no  life  in  me  to  keep 
it  out." 

So  they  came  to  the  little  isle  of  sheep,  where  the 
surf  burst  all  about  it  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  it 
was  all  green  with  bracken,  and  all  wet  with  dew,  and 

497 


FABLES 

the  moon  enlightened  it.  They  ran  the  boat  into  a 
cove,  -and  set  foot  to  land ;  and  the  man  came  heavily 
behind  among  the  rocks  in  the  deepness  of  the  bracken, 
but  the  Poor  Thing  went  before  him  like  a  smoke  in 
the  light  of  the  moon.  So  they  came  to  the  dead- 
cairn,  and  they  laid  their  ears  to  the  stones;  and  the 
dead  complained  withinsides  like  a  swarm  of  bees: 
"Time  was  that  marrow  was  in  our  bones,  and 
strength  in  our  sinews;  and  the  thoughts  of  our  head 
were  clothed  upon  with  acts  and  the  words  of  men. 
But  now  are  we  broken  in  sunder,  and  the  bonds  of 
our  bones  are  loosed,  and  our  thoughts  lie  in  the  dust." 

**Then  said  the  Poor  Thing:  "Charge  them  that 
they  give  you  the  virtue  they  withheld." 

And  the  man  said:  "  Bones  of  my  fathers,  greeting! 
for  1  am  sprung  of  your  loins.  And  now  behold  1  break 
open  the  piled  stones  of  your  cairn,  and  I  let  in  the 
noon  between  your  ribs.  Count  it  well  done,  for  it 
was  to  be;  and  give  me  what  I  come  seeking  in  the 
name  of  blood  and  in  the  name  of  God." 

And  the  spirits  of  the  dead  stirred  in  the  cairn  like 
ants;  and  they  spoke:  "You  have  broken  the  roof  of 
our  cairn  and  let  in  the  noon  between  our  ribs;  and 
you  have  the  strength  of  the  still-living.  But  what 
virtue  have  we?  what  power?  or  what  jewel  here  in 
the  dust  with  us,  that  any  living  man  should  covet  or 
receive  it  ?  for  we  are  less  than  nothing.  But  we  tell 
you  one  thing,  speaking  with  many  voices  like  bees, 
that  the  way  is  plain  before  all  like  the  grooves  of 
launching:  So  forth  into  life  and  fear  not,  for  so  did 
we  all  in  the  ancient  ages."  And  their  voices  passed 
away  like  an  eddy  in  a  river. 


THE   POOR  THING 

**No^v,"  said  the  Poor  Thing,  '*they  have  told  you 
a  lesson,  but  make  them  give  you  a  gift.  Stoop  your 
hand  among  the  bones  without  drawback,  and  you 
shall  find  their  treasure." 

So  the  man  stooped  his  hand,  and  the  dead  laid  hold 
upon  it  many  and  faint  like  ants;  but  he  shook  them 
off,  and  behold,  what  he  brought  up  in  his  hand  was 
the  shoe  of  a  horse,  and  it  was  rusty. 

*'  It  is  a  thing  of  no  price,"  quoth  the  man,  **for  it  is 
rusty." 

**We  shall  see  that,"  said  the  Poor  Thing;  ''for  in 
my  thought  it  is  a  good  thing  to  do  what  our  fathers 
did,  and  to  keep  what  they  kept  without  question. 
And  in  my  thought  one  thing  is  as  good  as  another  in 
this  world;  and  a  shoe  of  a  horse  will  do." 

Now  they  got  into  their  boat  with  the  horseshoe,  and 
when  the  dawn  was  come  they  were  aware  of  the 
smoke  of  the  Earl's  town  and  the  bells  of  the  Kirk  that 
beat.  So  they  set  foot  to  shore;  and  the  man  went  up 
to  the  market  among  the  fishers  over  against  the  palace 
and  the  Kirk;  and  he  was  bitter  poor  and  bitter  ugly, 
and  he  had  never  a  fish  to  sell,  but  only  a  shoe  of  a 
horse  in  his  creel,  and  it  rusty. 

"Now,"  said  the  Poor  Thing,  "do  so  and  so,  and 
you  shall  find  a  wife  and  I  a  mother." 

It  befell  that  the  Earl's  daughter  came  forth  to  go  into 
the  Kirk  upon  her  prayers,  and  when  she  saw  the  poor 
man  stand  in  the  market  with  only  the  shoe  of  a  horse, 
and  it  rusty,  it  came  in  her  mind  it  should  be  a  thing 
of  price. 

"What  is  that  ?"  quoth  she. 

"  It  is  a  shoe  of  a  horse,"  said  the  man. 
499 


FABLES 

"And  what  is  the  use  of  it?"  quoth  the  Earl's 
daughter. 

**  It  is  for  no  use,"  said  the  man. 

**  I  may  not  believe  that,"  said  she;  **  else  why  should 
you  carry  it  ?  " 

**I  do  so,"  said  he,  "because  it  was  so  my  fathers 
did  in  the  ancient  ages;  and  I  have  neither  a  better 
reason  nor  a  worse." 

Now  the  Earl's  daughter  could  not  find  it  in  her 
mind  to  believe  him.  "Come,"  quoth  she,  "sell  me 
this,  for  I  am  sure  it  is  a  thing  of  price." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  man,  "the  thing  is  not  for  sale." 

"What!"  cried  the  Earl's  daughter.  "Then  what 
make  you  here  in  the  town's  market,  with  the  thing  in 
your  creel  and  nought  beside  ?" 

" I  sit  here,"  says  the  man,  "to  get  me  a  wife." 

"There  is  no  sense  in  any  of  these  answers,"  thought 
the  Earl's  daughter;  "and  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  weep." 

By  came  the  Earl  upon  that;  and  she  called  him  and 
told  him  all.  And  when  he  had  heard,  he  was  of  his 
daughter's  mind  that  this  should  be  a  thing  of  virtue; 
and  charged  the  man  to  set  a  price  upon  the  thing  or 
else  be  hanged  upon  the  gallows,  and  that  was  near 
at  hand  so  that  the  man  could  see  it. 

"The  way  of  life  is  straight  like  the  grooves  of  launch- 
ing," quoth  the  man.  "And  if  1  am  to  be  hanged  let 
me  be  hanged." 

"Why!"  cried  the  Earl,  "will  you  set  your  neck 
against  a  shoe  of  a  horse,  and  it  rusty  ?  " 

"  In  my  thought,"  said  the  man,  "one  thing  is  as  good 
as  another  in  this  world;  and  a  shoe  of  a  horse  will  do." 

500 


THE  POOR  THING 

''This  can  never  be,"  thought  the  Earl,  and  he  stood 
and  looked  upon  the  man,  and  bit  his  beard. 

And  the  man  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled.  **  It  was 
so  my  fathers  did  in  the  ancient  ages,"  quoth  he  to  the 
Earl,  "and  I  have  neither  a  better  reason  nor  a  worse." 

"There  is  no  sense  in  any  of  this,"  thought  the  Earl, 
"and  I  must  be  growing  old."  So  he  had  his  daughter 
on  one  side,  and  says  he:  "Many  suitors  have  you 
-denied,  my  child.  But  here  is  a  very  strange  matter 
that  a  man  should  cling  so  to  a  shoe  of  a  horse,  and 
it  rusty;  and  that  he  should  offer  it  like  a  thing  on  sale, 
and  yet  not  sell  it;  and  that  he  should  sit  there  seeking  a 
wife.  If  I  come  not  to  the  bottom  of  this  thing,  I  shall 
have  no  more  pleasure  in  bread;  and  I  can  see  no  way, 
but  either  I  should  hang  or  you  should  marry  him." 

"  By  my  troth,  but  he  is  bitter  ugly,"  said  the  Earl's 
daughter.     "  How  if  the  gallows  be  so  near  at  hand  ?  " 

"It  was  not  so,"  said  the  Earl,  "that  my  fathers  did 
in  the  ancient  ages.  I  am  like  the  man,  and  can  give 
you  neither  a  better  reason  nor  a  worse.  But  do  you, 
prithee,  speak  with  him  again." 

So  the  Earl's  daughter  spoke  to  the  man.  "If  you 
were  not  so  bitter  ugly,"  quoth  she,  "my  father  the 
Earl  would  have  us  marry." 

"Bitter  ugly  am  I,"  said  the  man,  "and  you  as  fair 
as  May.  Bitter  ugly  I  am,  and  what  of  that  ?  It  was 
so  my  fathers   ..." 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  said  the  Earl's  daughter,  "let 
you  fathers  be !  " 

"If  I  had  done  that,"  said  the  man,  "you  had  never 
been  chaffering  with  me  here  in  the  market,  nor  your 
father  the  Earl  watching  with  the  end  of  his  eye." 

501 


FABLES 

**But  come,"  quoth  the  Earl's  daughter,  "this  is  a 
very  strange  thing,  that  you  would  have  me  wed  for  a 
shoe  of  a  horse,  and  it  rusty." 

*Mn  my  thought,"  quoth  the  man,  "one  thing  is  as 
good     .     .     ." 

"  O,  spare  me  that,"  said  the  Earl's  daughter,  "and 
tell  me  why  1  should  marry." 

"  Listen  and  look,"  said  the  man. 

Now  the  wind  blew  through  the  Poor  Thing  like  an 
infant  crying,  so  that  her  heart  was  melted;  and  her 
eyes  were  unsealed,  and  she  was  aware  of  the  thing  as 
it  were  a  babe  unmothered,  and  she  took  it  to  her 
arms,  and  it  melted  in  her  arms  like  the  air. 

"Come,"  said  the  man,  "behold  a  vision  of  our 
children,  the  busy  hearth,  and  the  white  heads.  And 
let  that  suffice,  for  it  is  all  God  offers." 

"I  have  no  delight  in  it,"  said  she,  but  with  that 
she  sighed. 

"The  ways  of  life  are  straight  like  the  grooves  of 
launching,"  said  the  man,  and  he  took  her  by  the  hand. 

"And  what  shall  we  do  with  the  horseshoe?" 
quoth  she. 

"I  will  give  it  to  your  father,"  said  the  man;  "and 
he  can  make  a  Kirk  and  a  mill  of  it  for  me." 

It  came  to  pass  in  time  that  the  Poor  Thing  was 
born,  but  memory  of  these  matters  slept  within  him, 
and  he  knew  not  that  which  he  had  done.  But  he 
was  a  part  of  the  eldest  son ;  rejoicing  manfully  to 
launch  the  boat  into  the  surf,  skilful  to  direct  the  helm, 
and  a  man  of  might  where  the  ring  closes  and  the 
blows  are  going. 


503 


XX 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MORROW 

The  King  of  Duntrine  had  a  daughter  when  he  was 
old,  and  she  was  the  fairest  King's  daughter  between 
two  seas;  her  hair  was  like  spun  gold  and  her  eyes 
like  pools  in  a  river;  and  the  King  gave  her  a  castle 
upon  the  sea  beach,  with  a  terrace,  and  a  court  of  the 
hewn  stone,  and  four  towers  at  the  four  corners.  Here 
she  dwelt  and  grew  up,  and  had  no  care  for  the  mor- 
row and  no  power  upon  the  hour,  after  the  manner 
of  simple  men. 

It  befell  that  she  walked  one  day  by  the  beach  of  the 
sea,  when  it  was  autumn,  and  the  wind  blew  from  the 
place  of  rains ;  and  upon  the  one  hand  of  her  the  sea 
beat,  and  upon  the  other  the  dead  leaves  ran.  This 
was  the  loneliest  beach  between  two  seas,  and  strange 
things  had  been  done  there  in  the  ancient  ages.  Now 
the  King's  daughter  was  aware  of  a  crone  that  sat  upon 
the  beach.  The  sea  foam  ran  to  her  feet,  and  the  dead 
leaves  swarmed  about  her  back,  and  the  rags  blew 
about  her  face  in  the  blowing  of  the  wind. 

*'Now,"  said  the  King's  daughter,  and  she  named 
a  holy  name,  "this  is  the  most  unhappy  old  crone 
between  two  seas." 

** Daughter  of  a  King,"  said  the  crone,  "you  dwell 
in  a  stone  house,  and  your  hair  is  like  the  gold,  but 

503 


FABLES 

what  is  your  profit  ?  Life  is  not  long,  nor  lives  strong; 
and  you  live  after  the  way  of  simple  men,  and  have  no 
thought  for  the  morrow  and  no  power  upon  the  hour." 

"Thought  for  the  morrow,  that  I  have,"  said  the 
King's  daughter;  **but  power  upon  the  hour,  that 
have  I  not."     And  she  mused  with  herself. 

Then  the  crone  smote  her  lean  hands  one  within  the 
other,  and  laughed  like  a  seagull.  "  Home,"  cried  she, 
*'  O  daughter  of  a  King,  home  to  your  stone  house,  for 
the  longing  is  come  upon  you  now,  nor  can  you  live 
any  more  after  the  manner  of  simple  men.  Home,  and 
toil  and  suffer,  till  the  gift  come  that  will  make  you 
bare,  and  till  the  man  come  that  will  bring  you  care." 

The  King's  daughter  made  no  more  ado,  but  she 
turned  about  and  went  home  to  her  house  in  silence. 
And  when  she  was  come  into  her  chamber  she  called 
for  her  nurse. 

*' Nurse,"  said  the  King's  daughter,  "thought  is 
come  upon  me  for  the  morrow,  so  that  I  can  live  no 
more  after  the  manner  of  simple  men.  Tell  me  what  I 
must  do  that  I  may  have  power  upon  the  hour." 

Then  the  nurse  moaned  like  a  snow  wind.  ' '  Alas ! " 
said  she,  "that  this  thing  should  be;  but  the  thought 
is  gone  into  your  marrow,  nor  is  there  any  cure  against 
the  thought.  Be  it  so,  then,  even  as  you  will ;  though 
power  is  less  than  weakness,  power  shall  you  have; 
and  though  the  thought  is  colder  than  winter,  yet  shall 
you  think  it  to  an  end." 

So  the  King's  daughter  sat  in  her  vaulted  chamber  in 
the  masoned  house,  and  she  thought  upon  the  thought. 
Nine  years  she  sat;  and  the  sea  beat  upon  the  terrace, 
and  the  gulls  cried  about  the  turrets,  and  wind  crooned 

504 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MORROW 

in  the  chimneys  of  the  house.  Nine  years  she  came 
not  abroad,  nor  tasted  the  clean  air,  neither  saw  God's 
sky.  Nine  years  she  sat  and  looked  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  nor  heard  speech  of  anyone,  but  thought 
upon  the  thought  of  the  morrow.  And  her  nurse  fed 
her  in  silence,  and  she  took  of  the  food  with  her  left 
hand  and  ate  it  without  grace. 

Now  when  the  nine  years  were  out,  it  fell  dusk  in 
the  autumn,  and  there  came  a  sound  in  the  wind  like  a 
sound  of  piping.  At  that  the  nurse  lifted  up  her  finger 
in  the  vaulted  house. 

"  I  hear  a  sound  in  the  wind,"  said  she,  **  that  is  like 
the  sound  of  piping." 

'Mt  is  but  a  little  sound,"  said  the  King's  daughter, 
**but  yet  it  is  sound  enough  for  me." 

So  they  went  down  in  the  dusk  to  the  doors  of  the 
house,  and  along  the  beach  of  the  sea.  And  the  waves 
beat  upon  the  one  hand,  and  upon  the  other  the  dead 
leaves  ran;  and  the  clouds  raced  in  the  sky,  and  the 
gulls  flew  widdershins.  And  when  they  came  to  that 
part  of  the  beach  where  strange  things  had  been  done 
in  the  ancient  ages,  lo,  there  was  the  crone,  and  she 
was  dancing  widdershins. 

"What  makes  you  dance  widdershins,  old  crone?" 
said  the  King's  daughter,  **here  upon  the  bleak  beach 
between  the  waves  and  the  dead  leaves  ?  " 

**I  hear  a  sound  in  the  wind  that  is  like  a  sound 
of  piping,"  quoth  she.  **  And  it  is  for  that  that  I  dance 
widdershins.  For  the  gift  comes  that  will  make  you 
bare,  and  the  man  comes  that  must  bring  you  care. 
But  for  me  the  morrow  is  come  that  I  have  thought 
upon,  and  the  hour  of  my  power." 

505 


FABLES 

"How  comes  it,  crone,"  said  the  King's  daughter, 
**that  you  waver  like  a  rag,  and  pale  like  a  dead  leaf 
before  my  eyes  ?  " 

**  Because  the  morrow  has  come  that  I  have  thought 
upon,  and  the  hour  of  my  power,"  said  the  crone,  and 
she  fell  on  the  beach,  and  lo!  she  was  but  stalks  of  the 
sea  tangle,  and  dust  of  the  sea  sand,  and  the  sand  lice 
hopped  upon  the  place  of  her. 

"This  is  the  strangest  thing  that  befell  between  two 
seas,"  said  the  King's  daughter  of  Duntrine. 

But  the  nurse  broke  out  and  moaned  like  an  autumn 
gale.  "  I  am  weary  of  the  wind,"  quoth  she,  and  she 
bewailed  her  day. 

The  King's  daughter  was  aware  of  a  man  upon  the 
beach,  he  went  hooded  so  that  none  might  perceive 
his  face;  and  a  pipe  was  underneath  his  arm.  The 
sound  of  his  pipe  was  like  singing  wasps  and  like  the 
wind  that  sings  in  windlestraw;  and  it  took  hold  upon 
men's  ears  like  the  crying  of  gulls. 

"Are  you  the  comer?"  quoth  the  King's  daughter 
of  Duntrine. 

"I  am  the  comer,"  said  he,  "and  these  are  the  pipes 
that  a  man  may  hear,  and  I  have  power  upon  the  hour, 
and  this  is  the  song  of  the  morrow."  And  he  piped 
the  song  of  the  morrow,  and  it  was  as  long  as  years, 
and  the  nurse  wept  out  aloud  at  the  hearing  of  it. 

"This  is  true,"  said  the  King's  daughter,  "that  you 
pipe  the  song  of  the  morrow;  but  that  ye  have  power 
upon  the  hour,  how  may  I  know  that?  Show  me  a 
marvel  here  upon  the  beach  between  the  waves  and 
the  dead  leaves." 

And  the  man  said,  "  Upon  whom  ?" 
506 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MORROW 

''Here  is  my  nurse,"  quoth  the  King's  daughter. 
"She  is  weary  of  the  wind.  Show  me  a  good  marvel 
upon  her." 

And  lo  the  nurse  fell  upon  the  beach  as  it  were  two 
handfuls  of  dead  leaves,  and  the  wind  whirled  them 
widdershins,  and  the  sand  lice  hopped  between. 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  King's  daughter  of  Duntrine; 
"you  are  the  comer,  and  you  have  power  upon  the 
hour.     Come  with  me  to  my  stone  house." 

So  they  went  by  the  sea  margin,  and  the  man  piped 
the  song  of  the  morrow,  and  the  leaves  followed  behind 
them  as  they  went.  Then  they  sat  down  together; 
and  the  sea  beat  on  the  terrace,  and  the  gulls  cried 
about  the  towers,  and  the  wind  crooned  in  the  chim- 
neys of  the  house.  Nine  years  they  sat^  and  every 
year  when  it  fell  autumn,  the  man  said,  "This  is  the 
hour,  and  I  have  power  in  it,"  and  the  daughter  of  the 
King  said,  "Nay,  but  pipe  me  the  song  of  the  mor- 
row."    And  he  piped  it,  and  it  was  long  like  years. 

Now  when  the  nine  years  were  gone,  the  King's 
daughter  of  Duntrine  got  her  to  her  feet,  like  one  that 
remembers;  and  she  looked  about  her  in  the  masoned 
house;  and  all  her  servants  were  gone;  only  the  man 
that  piped  sat  upon  the  terrace  with  the  hand  upon  his 
face,  and  as  he  piped  the  leaves  ran  about  the  terrace 
and  the  sea  beat  along  the  wall.  Then  she  cried  to 
him  with  a  great  voice,  "This  is  the  hour,  and  let  me 
see  the  power  of  it."  And  with  that  the  wind  blew 
off  the  hand  from  the  man's  face,  and  lo,  there  was  no 
man  there,  only  the  clothes  and  the  hand  and  the  pipes 
tumbled  one  upon  another  in  a  corner  of  the  terrace, 
and  the  dead  leaves  ran  over  them. 

50/ 


FABLES 

And  the  King's  daughter  of  Duntrine  got  her  to  that 
part  of  the  beach  where  strange  things  had  been  done 
in  the  ancient  ages,  and  there  she  sat  her  down.  The 
sea  foam  ran  to  her  feet,  and  the  dead  leaves  swarmed 
about  her  back,  and  the  veil  blew  about  her  face  in  the 
blowing  of  the  wind.  And  when  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes,  there  was  the  daughter  of  a  King  come  walking 
on  the  beach.  Her  hair  was  like  the  spun  gold,  and 
her  eyes  like  pools  in  a  river,  and  she  had  no  thought 
for  the  morrow  and  no  power  upon  the  hour,  after  the 
manner  of  simple  men. 


508 


v.  to 


